Dirt
by Ninnik Nishukan
Summary: "You know she treats you like dirt, right?" Bianca/Wilshire. Chapter four is now up!
1. Fluke

**Dirt**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Author's notes:** 2013 was the year I went officially insane and started writing fanfic for _Beverly Hills Teens_, a corny show with cheap animation and lazy writing. It was cancelled after only one (inexplicably long) season in 1987 – and obviously has no fandom.

So…this is the fic that absolutely nobody wanted and nobody asked for. Except me. Bianca/Wilshire is so canon and _so messed up_ that I just couldn't _not_ write it. Apparently. They, and especially the antagonistic Bianca, are the main reason to watch the show – besides the 80's nostalgia, the insane made-up cartoon tech, and the occasionally witty mocking of a certain level of overprivileged people.

* * *

"You know she treats you like dirt, right?" murmurs Troy under his breath as they watch Bianca walk away in a temper.

Wilshire bought the wrong brand of dog collar for Empress, and Bianca really let him have it – including the collar, which she threw in his face— right in front of everybody.

"Even though I kept the receipt just in case and everything…" sighs Wilshire.

"But you know, right?" Troy insists, voice still low and discrete.

Wilshire hesitates. "…I guess."

* * *

"So what's the dirt on you and Bianca, anyway?" asks Switchboard.

Wilshire doesn't usually sweat much, even though he's a big guy who's forced to do heavy lifting almost every single day.

Now he can feel it, though, cold and prickly, on his forehead, on the back of his neck, and in his armpits.

The girl is nearly pushing the microphone into his cheek, she's so eager.

"Um…" Wilshire swallows, not used to the limelight. It's not often that people want his opinion. "N-no comment."

"Aww, c'mon, Wilshire— don't leave the public hanging!"

"Wh-who exactly are the public? And wh-why are you so interested in me and Bianca all of a sudden, anyway?"

Switchboard covers the mic with her hand, shrugs. "Eh, it's a slow news day. It happens." She gives a surreptitious glance, scanning the poolside before peering at him. "Besides, I've always kinda wondered."

His gaze drops, his shoulders hunching. "Look, why don't you ask Bianca?" he mumbles. "If anybody knows, it's her. She's the one calling all the shots."

"Oh, I already did."

Wilshire looks up, eyes wide, heart pounding. "Wh-wha— you did? What did she _say_?"

Switchboard clears her throat. "She said, and I quote: You get that microphone _away_ from me, Brenda McTech, or I'll wrap the chord around your _neck_!" She shakes her head. "Real _friendly_, right?"

Wilshire's shoulders slump in a mixture of relief and disappointment. "Well…it's Bianca. What did you expect?"

Sighing, she switches off the mic. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point, but I _do_ have my journalistic integri—"

"Probably serves you right for asking, anyway."

Switchboard arches a brow. "Is that right? Yeah, I suppose I shouldn't upset the Mistress of the Dungeon."

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing…only that I've been wondering if maybe you're not actually more into S&amp;M than M&amp;Ms, Slave Boy," she smirks, poking his stomach before wanders off in search of a new interview subject.

Wilshire can feel his face turning hot as he wonders if this particular thought has crossed anybody else's mind as well.

* * *

"Thanks for helping me out, Wilshire," Shanelle says warmly.

"No problem, Shanelle!" Wilshire replies with a broad smile. Then the smile drops. "Uhm, sorry I ripped your first banner for the dance, though…"

Shanelle waves a hand, tries not to cringe. "That's fine. You apologized and helped me make a new one to hang up, right?"

Wilshire looks down sheepishly. "I guess…"

"I know I was a little annoyed at first, but…it's okay to make mistakes as long as you do your best to fix them, Wilshire," she says, patting his shoulder briefly.

"Bianca doesn't seem to think so. She wants everything to be perfect on the first go."

"Uh-huh?" Shanelle tries not to roll her eyes. "Well, even Bianca Dupree can't be perfect all the time."

Wilshire's smile turns fond. "Oh, I don't know about that…" he objects loyally.

"I'm guessing you've heard she's going to the dance with Gig, though…?"

His smile fades. "Yeah…I heard."

Her hand goes to her hip. "And yet you're here, helping with the decorations."

"It's everybody's dance…not just mine. And as the class president and all, I know you have a lot to do." He gives a slow shrug. "Besides…Gig's playing, so I doubt he'll have time to dance with her much. That's something. And I suppose Jett won't like it, either. I know how Jett feels, but I wouldn't presume to stop Bianca from doing anything she likes. We're not like Gig and Jett."

For a moment, Shanelle only looks at him. "You know she doesn't deserve you, right?"

At her direct question, she can actually see his cheeks turning red, even as the rest of his face goes paler. "That's exactly what _she_ says," he mutters.

Shanelle feels a stab of pity for the boy. Sure, she's seen him miserable before, but most of the time he's so goofy and positive, almost to the point of obliviousness, that it's quite uncomfortable to listen to him now. "Except…she doesn't mean what I meant by it, huh?"

Wilshire nods slowly. "To be honest, I'm not sure who actually 'deserves' me at all. People seem to only tolerate me up to a certain point."

Drawing a breath, Shanelle puts her hand on his arm. Although lying chafes her, goes against her very nature, honesty isn't always the best policy. "Wilshire…I think I like the second banner better."

Wilshire blinks carefully at her. "You do?"

Shanelle smiles, tries to make it a hundred per cent genuine. "Honest."

No matter how awkward and clumsy he is, Bianca still doesn't deserve him. That part is a hundred per cent true.

* * *

"There you go, Tara," Wilshire says, taking a short bow.

Tara smiles as she enters the door he's holding open for her. "Why, Wilshire Brentwood! I do declare! Aren't you just the perfect gentleman?"

Wilshire blushes. "Am I?"

"Why, sure! You even carried my ever so heavy bags inside! I don't know how to thank you!"

"Aww, that's nothing…don't worry about it. I'm used to heavy lifting."

Tara fans herself with her hand; wishes she didn't forget her actual fan at home. "Well, look at you! Sweeter than a magnolia in May, and built like a linebacker to boot!"

"Gee, thanks, Tara…you really think so?"

"Certainly. I must admit, that driver's uniform doesn't do much for you, darlin', but…" She dithers, smiling coyly, but then decides it's not too inappropriate. "…well, if it weren't for your utter devotion to Miss Bianca Dupree, I might almost even consider snatching you up for my very own!"

Wilshire gives an embarrassed laugh. "Tara, really, there's no need to flatter me just because I helped you—"

But Tara just shakes her head. "Oh, I mean it. I will never quite understand what y'all see in Miss Dupree, that's all…now thanks again, and don't be a stranger, y'hear?"

Then she walks off, waving a dainty hand as she goes.

Wilshire sighs. Tara is a wonderful girl, but the only thing he can focus on is how much he wishes Bianca had been there to overhear the conversation. A vote of confidence in a sea of her complaints about him as a potential suitor.

* * *

"You know…I just don't understand you," says Pierce, combing his hair as they're standing in the lunch line in the school cafeteria.

Wilshire reluctantly pauses in his dreamy study of Bianca's flawless profile. She's sitting at a table with Larke and Troy, forgetting to eat her lunch as she hangs onto Troy's arm. He wishes she'd eat something. She won't be able to concentrate in math class later.

He turns his head to Pierce. "Hmm?"

Pierce doesn't even look up from his mirror. "Your whole thing with serving people…I mean, _really_…always helping others, and on your feet all day for the Ice Princess to boot…just what are you trying to _prove_, Brentwood?"

Wilshire frowns. "Prove?"

"_I_ say let others work for _you_ for a change, and never compromise yourself – I never do. I let them come to me instead. It never takes people long to realize my superiority. You have to know who you _are_, Wilshire!"

Wilshire holds his tongue. As far as he can recall, Pierce is usually the one to seek people out, not the other way around. Especially when it comes to girls.

Sighing internally, he redirects his attention back to Bianca. Conversations with Pierce are usually pretty one-sided, anyway, and don't require much from him.

"Wilshire! Wilshire, are you even _listening_ to me?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, _as_ I suspected…Bianca-watching again, are we?" Pierce drawls. "Why don't you just purchase a pair of opera glasses and be done with it, hmm? Honestly, man, have some self-respect! You _do_ know you humiliate yourself in front of her, right?"

Again, Wilshire says nothing. Pierce routinely humiliates himself with girls, after all. He's not one to talk. The only difference is that Pierce's objects of affection seem to change every five minutes, whereas Wilshire stays the course. Sometimes, Wilshire wonders if this makes him noble or just plain insane. Isn't that the definition of insanity, anyway? Trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

Pierce clucks his tongue; sends Wilshire a pitying glance before returning his attention to his own reflection. "You're aware that you're basically just banging your fat head against a brick wall, right?"

Then again, Wilshire wonders, eyes never leaving Bianca's face, it's not like he _does_ expect different results, is it? Some days, he's pretty much already given up from the start. Most of the time, he just wants to be near her. He knows that's all he can ever hope for.

But then there are those other days, those rare days, when she seems to be temporarily insane herself. When she throws him a kind word or a smile, or even goes as far as to hug or kiss him.

He might say those days pull him back in, but that's not true. After all, he's never been out. He's a consistent kind of guy.

"Wilshire!"

"What? Oh! Yeah…head against a brick wall…I know…" he mumbles. "Hey, um, could you pass me the caviar?"

* * *

"Wilshire!"

"Huh? Oh…hi, Bianca."

"_Hi_? What are you doing here, still stuffing your face? Class is about to start!"

It's not until now that he notices the lunch hall is nearly empty. Wilshire bows his head. "I can't help it…I eat when I'm nervous."

An impatient scoff escapes her. "Whatever! You promised to carry my book bag upstairs, remember?"

Wilshire's brows knit. "I remember. You just…go ahead. I'll be right there."

Bianca actually pauses, then, instead of yelling some more. His voice seems even smaller than usual to her. "What…what exactly do you have to be _nervous_ about, anyway?"

For a beat or two, he doesn't answer her, merely scrapes his silver spoon along the bottom of the china bowl full of what's supposed to be a delicious tropical fruit salad. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

"Everybody seems to…have an opinion about me."

Bianca's finely sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? So you're not as anonymous and unimportant as I thought?"

Wilshire fidgets with the spoon again, tapping it dully against the bowl for a moment. "You and me, I mean," he says, his gaze sliding up to meet hers, then dropping back down. "Opinions about me, about you, about what we think about each other…mainly what you think of me…and how you treat me."

Bianca's hands go to her hips. "_Who's_ got an opinion?"

"Like I said…more or less everybody."

"Is it Larke? She's always trying to keep me from Troy—"

"Bianca!" Wilshire is suddenly upright and exasperated. His chair makes a loud complaint of a noise against the floor as he pushes it back. "Please! This is very confusing for me!"

"Oh, this is about what Switchboard said last week, isn't it? Her and her so-called _slow newsday_!"

"No, it's not just—"

Then she gasps, her scowl sharpening. "Don't tell me _you_ dished the dirt! Don't tell me _that's_ why everybody's talking!"

"No! I told her 'no comment'!"

Bianca brightens slightly. "Well…good! Because there isn't even any dirt to dish! But—"

"Bianca!"

"_What_?" she demands, finally objecting to the uncharacteristic loudness and force of him.

His frustrated courage abandons him then, leaving only behind apprehension. "Do you…do _you_ think I should like you?"

She blinks rapidly at him, brows drawing together with confused impatience. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Wilshire swallows, his thoughts drifting to the time, at age six, when he decided to start his first swimming lesson by jumping into the deep end of the pool. "I, uh…well, you see…"

"Well, spit it out! Class is about to start, we don't have all day!"

Wilshire wilts back. The words just aren't there. He should have taken more time to _think_, before breaching the subject. "I don't…never mind."

Something about his voice makes her hesitate again. He sounds even more dejected than usual, and his face has gone pale.

Shuffling out of the room with her book bag slung across his shoulder, he leaves her standing there.

By the time she's reached the classroom, her stomach has started churning.

* * *

Three days later, his stomach hurts. He can't stop eating.

Not that it matters, he supposes. Bianca hardly ever looks at him. Not properly.

At lunch today, he had to finally force himself to put down his fork and stick to water the rest of the meal. He's already put on three pounds.

He's on his way home to drop off Bianca's dry cleaning, which he has to deliver to the cleaner's early next morning before he picks Bianca up for school. Bianca's waiting in the limo for him to drive her home.

Just as he's walking up his driveway, he hears somebody calling him.

"Wilshire?"

Surprised, he looks up. He's so tired and is walking so slouched that he didn't even notice that it wasn't the butler opening the front door, but his parents.

"Wilshire!" exclaims his mother, "I hardly recognized you! What's going on?"

"Are you wearing a common chauffeur's uniform?" His father demands. "And are my eyes deceiving me, or are you carrying someone's dry cleaning bags?"

Wilshire's shoulders slump even further. "I swear there's a good explanation for this…"

"Ah. Ah, I see," says Mom, her tone milder than Dad's. "You were attending a humorously themed costume party, perhaps? A carnival? Servants switching places with their masters, that sort of thing?"

"Uhm…no…no, not exactly…"

"No? Then what on Earth could be the explanation?" Mom gasps as she studies him further. "And you're covered in dirt to the knee! And your sleeve is torn! What exactly _have_ you been _doing_?"

"Empress ran off and crawled under some bushes, and I had to— never mind, i-it's not important." He quickly interrupts himself when he sees their vaguely horrified expressions; they don't know Bianca's dog, so they're probably wondering what an empress was doing crawling under a bush or something.

Suddenly, he feels more tired than ever. Suddenly, he can't provide that 'good explanation' after all. "Mom…Dad…I don't really…let's just say it's complicated, all right?"

"Wilshire," says Dad, putting on his best consoling voice, "you've always been a good son, and we're not _unreasonable_. If you've gotten yourself into some sort of debt or some kind of trouble, don't be afraid to tell us. We'll help you out. You don't have to be anybody's servant."

Wilshire hangs his head. "But I do. I do have to. And I don't know how to explain it. You wouldn't understand."

"Wilshire," starts Mom, getting worried now, "exactly how_ long_ has this been going on?"

"Um…for about a year now?"

"A year! Please don't tell us you've been going around in public in that…in that _outfit_!"

"With other people's _dry cleaning_ on your arm?" Dad chimes in, angrily snatching the bags from Wilshire's arms and brandishing them like exhibit A through C. "And don't tell me you've been walking dogs or carrying shopping, too, because—"

Wilshire looks down, kicking slightly at the gravel.

"Wilshire! Think of the family name!" Dad continues, getting stern. "Have some pride! You're a Brentwood! You're nobody's servant! Think of what it would do to our reputation!"

"I agree! This is shameful!" Mom scolds, grabbing the dry cleaning from Dad and dumping it on the chaise longue in the hall before spinning around and pointing an accusing finger at her son. "And how could this have been going on for a _year_, yet you never said—"

"You'd have known a long time ago if you were ever actually _home_," Wilshire mumbles, not looking at them.

"Wilshire! Don't be ungrateful!" Dad barks. "You _know_ how hard your mother and I work at our charities and the family businesses! And you, almost a grown man—"

"Do you _know_," a cold voice rings out suddenly, "who I _am_?"

Wilshire's parents look up, refocusing their startled gazes.

It's Bianca, getting out of the car and pulling herself up regally.

Wilshire's eyes widen considerably as he hears rapid, decisive footsteps on the gravel path. The pebbles are digging into the soles of her designer pumps, ruining them, and she doesn't even seem to notice.

Wilshire's father clears his throat loudly. "Look here, young lady, I don't know who you think you are, but—"

"That's exactly the point!" Bianca snaps. "I hardly think you _do_ know who I am, or you wouldn't be speaking to me in that manner!"

Wilshire's mother frowns. "Now _wait_ just a _minute_—"

"I am Bianca Dupree," Bianca interrupts sharply, "my family owns Texas, a good portion of Beverly Hills, and a great deal more— as I'm sure you know, if you would only stop to think for a minute! You think you're rich, but let me tell you this— my family could buy and sell your family twice over!"

Wilshire glances at his parents. They've gone pale now. If it's from offended anger or because they've just remembered they have business dealings with the Duprees that they can't afford to jeopardize, Wilshire doesn't know.

Then Mom draws herself up, not unlike Bianca did earlier. "Yes, well, if perhaps you'd like to get to the point sometime _today_—"

"My _point_ is that it's an _honor_ to be my chauffeur! There are plenty of people who would _pay_ for the privilege, and I let your son do the job for _free_!"

Wilshire can't recall seeing anybody queuing up to drive Bianca around without a salary, but he has to admire the sheer nerve of her.

Dad splutters, apparently too outraged to say anything coherent.

"And you know what? He's right! What business is it of _yours_ to suddenly swoop in and take an interest in his life, only whenever it suits you?" Her silk glove-encased finger stabs the air in front of them in accusation. "If he's doing things with his spare time that you don't approve of, then blame _yourselves_, don't yell at _him_! It just means that you're terrible at parenting! It means you're never there! He's been my chauffeur for ages, day in and day out, yet you never noticed! You _think_ about that!"

Tossing her long, dark hair, Bianca spins around and glides back across the path. How she maneuvers the uneven ground so gracefully in four inch heels is a mystery to Wilshire.

"Come along, Wilshire!" she calls as she slips into her car seat.

Wilshire looks back at his parents, his heart thudding in his chest. Then he turns and runs, scared he'll lose the nerve if he even so much as tries to utter a single syllable.

* * *

When they're back on the road, headed to her house, his rapid heartbeat finally starts to return to normal. He inhales and exhales, his shoulders lowering further with relief as he gets a whiff of her familiar perfume. If not for her intervention, he might've been grounded for weeks, and what with summer coming up soon, he wouldn't even be able to see her at _school_. Truly a fate worse than death.

"Thank you, Bianca," he murmurs shyly, glancing back at her.

Bianca gives him a long, unreadable stare in the rear-view mirror. Then she looks away. "You're not allowed to quit, even if they say so. Ever. _I'm_ the one who decides when you leave."

Other people might've objected to this, he knows that. Objected to being ordered around, objected to such presumption. But he isn't other people, and other people don't know Bianca. He knows what she's really saying— and besides, his desires might also be different than other people's. Now he can feel his chest swelling, his throat tightening, warmth spreading throughout his entire being. He wants to shout with joy.

Instead, he clears his throat gently. "That's good," he says, his voice thick, "because I won't ever want to leave."

Bianca's glare is reflected in the mirror. "Don't get schmaltzy with me, Wilshire, you _know_ I can't stand it!"

Wilshire sends her an apologetic look across his shoulder, but his sigh is quite happy as he drives on.

"Sorry, my darling!"

* * *

The second the limousine comes to a halt in front of her mansion, his stomach growls loudly, as if it was waiting for the opportunity.

"Hungry?" Bianca asks, with a significant amount of sarcasm.

"Uh, well…what with all the errands you sent me to do this afternoon and evening, I didn't really have time to grab any dinner."

"Probably just as well, considering how you _stuffed_ yourself at lunch."

Wilshire sends her a sheepish grin as his stomach growls again, and rushes out of the car to open the door for her.

It's still early enough that the butler hasn't gone to bed yet, but he looks somewhat impatient as he holds the door open for Miss Dupree.

When she's entered her home, Wilshire's still hovering outside the door. It's what he nearly always does. A few steps behind her, at a respectful yet hopeful distance.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks, and she can't help but think that this should be the butler's line, not his. Most days, she has trouble figuring out whether she enjoys him remaining so pitiful, or whether it annoys her.

His unfashionably large stomach makes itself audibly known again, and she tuts. "If anybody needs anything right now, it sounds like it's you."

"Oh. Um, I wouldn't want to be a bother…" he mumbles.

"Since when are you _ever_ modest when it comes to food?" she remarks, elegantly sweeping the train of her gown around as she crosses the large entrance hall, fully expecting him to follow. "And you've always been a bother. Too late to stop now."

Behind her, he gives a nervous little laugh.

* * *

"Well? Go on, help yourself." Her hand gestures in a lazy, elegant arch towards the tall, well-stocked refrigerator. "_I'm_ certainly not going to do it _for_ you."

Suddenly, his usual buttery cheerfulness seems to have bounced back. "Don't mind if I do!"

Watching him raid her luxurious fridge is as oddly satisfying as it is unappealing. On the one hand, the slob definitely has a habit of eating way too much, but on the other…the return of his appetite means that somehow, she's managed to fix something.

There's no more pale face or tiny voice.

Bianca could just go to bed now; ask him to show himself out when he's done. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. He even has a personal set of keys. She gave it to him last year, out of necessity. It enables him to enter the garage to fetch the limo, and get into the house to pick up any kind of thing she might need at a moment's notice. Or just in case she ever loses her own keys, which would be a problem if the help aren't home (especially considering her parents almost never are).

Wilshire, of course, lost his head as usual, interpreting it as some kind of declaration of trust and intimacy, instead of the practical maneuver she'd intended.

The silly boy even offered her a copy of the keys to his own house, as if they were exchanging gifts or something. She refused, of course, but in retrospect, she sort of regretted it. After all, you never knew when you needed power over someone.

Then again, if she acquires any more power over Wilshire than she already has, he would quite literally be her slave, which is unfortunately illegal.

So…yes. She could just go to bed. Leave him to his meal. He will probably even do the dishes before he goes.

But it's still fairly early, and she needs to…double check her appointment book for tomorrow.

Which she could of course do up in her bedroom, but…still.

As she sits down across from him at the kitchen table, which is a hefty polished marble piece, but always seems to her as uncharacteristically small and cozy compared to the rest of the house, she tries not to contemplate the unanswered questions in her head.

Things have happened today. Things have been going on. People have been asking things about them. She's not sure she wants to know for how long.

Twirling her pen in her hand, she scans her leather-bound appointment book. She can feel him studying her face with much the same excitement she studies a particularly exquisite piece of jewelry.

Wilshire has been diligently working his way through the scavenged leftovers of cold pheasant, charlotte potatoes and juniper berries, but the moment she sat down, his fork sagged in his hand, warmth blooming in every bone in his body. "Oh, Bianca, I swear…you're my hero! The way you stood up to my parents for me— wow!"

Bianca clucks her tongue. "I merely told them who I was."

"Still! It was great! I mean— the looks on their faces!" he enthuses, chuckling. "Of course, it wasn't exactly the way I'd pictured you meeting my parents for the first time, but I guess I can't have everything."

The natural color drains from her face, visible even behind her thousand-dollar foundation. "I don't want any part of your crazy fantasies, Wilshire. And don't talk with your mouth full. And would it _kill_ you to use a _napkin_?"

Embarrassed, he snatches a napkin from the silver holder on the table, then fixes his gaze to the cold pheasant as he dabs at his mouth. "Sorry." For a moment, he picks absentmindedly at his food while Bianca writes in her appointment book. "I don't know if I want to go back there," he mutters, then. "What if they yell at me?"

Bianca scoffs. "What do you mean, 'if'?"

"What if they kick me out?"

"They'll probably kick you back _in_ after a day or two."

Wilshire sits up from his slump, his fork dropping from his hand and clattering on to his plate. "Oh, my gosh! What if they _disown_ me?"

For a moment, Bianca feels positively faint at the very thought of being disowned, but then she shakes herself, and sighs. This is probably a terrible idea, but he's always…_there_, and besides…having been the victim of distasteful pranks meant to teach her a lesson, she knows what it feels like to believe she might lose her entire fortune. "Well…in that case…I suppose you've already got a job, don't you? All you need is a paycheck."

He stares at her, mouth open. "R-really? You'd do that for me?"

She shrugs, flips her hair. "Whatever. It's not like I can't afford it."

He wants to gush, make an impassioned speech about how much her suggestion means to him, but for once, he keeps his mouth shut. He's stunned that she's basically just offered to take care of him, but as with most things she says to him that almost seem like kindness, it was delivered in a casual, nearly careless tone.

It occurs to him that if he goes over the top like usual, she might reconsider and withdraw her generosity. That's the thing about Bianca. He never quite knows how sincere she is when it comes to these things, or how long they will last if he's not careful. She definitely won't appreciate it if he interprets this as some kind of declaration of love.

So he just concentrates on finishing his belated dinner, trying to ignore the warm, fizzy feeling in his chest. It's hard, goes against all he is, but he _will not_ ruin this. For once. "Thanks, Bianca," he says quietly, not even daring to meet her eyes.

Bianca blinks at him. She expected him to make a big deal out of it; had practically been gritting her teeth already, in preparation of his silly, saccharine spiel.

Met instead with silence, she stumbles mentally. This isn't their normal rhythm. It forces her to think.

"Wilshire…" Her voice is unfamiliarly small. "What was that you said yesterday? About everybody talking about us?"

He bows his head, his eyes tightly shut. Again, she's spun him around. Distracted as he was by the evening's turn of events, he almost forgot about the local gossip. Besides, when does she ever refer back to anything he's told her, actually asking him earnest questions about it? How many more times is she going to surprise him tonight?

"They're all saying…or at least that seems to be the underlying theme…that I should just forget about you. That I should stop working and slaving for you. That you treat me like dirt. That I shouldn't like you. But I do. But you don't. And they keep saying…" He bites his lip, releases it. Things were going so well now that the conversation he wanted so desperately to have earlier today suddenly seems painful and unnecessary. But her wish is his command. "I wish they'd just stop making me overthink everything. I mean, I didn't mind the abuse, I was happy with the way things were…at least I think I was. To be honest, I don't even know what to think anymore…"

For a moment, Bianca can only stare fixedly at her meticulous manicure, trying not to wring her hands as she processes the new information. Finally, she clears her throat in a delicate manner. "So they think you should quit?"

Wilshire won't look at her. "Um…yeah."

"And who are _they_?"

"I'd rather not say—"

Her thin veneer of patience disintegrates. "Wilshire!"

"W-well, my parents—"

"I _know_ that! Who else?"

"Uhm…Switchboard, Shanelle, Pierce, Tara— and— and, uh, Troy."

"Troy?" Her voice has turned abruptly reedy.

"Uh…yes?"

"_Troy _said that? He thinks I treat you like dirt?"

He hesitates, hating the way Troy's opinions can affect her. "That's…pretty much how he expressed it, yeah. Sorry."

For a moment, Bianca only sits there, gazing through him, at some point a thousand miles away. "Well," she begins weakly, "it makes sense, doesn't it? He's probably misunderstood our, uh, relationship, and probably thinks you're in the way somehow. And then, if he gets you to leave, he can—"

Wilshire's heart clenches in a sudden jolt of desperation and panic. She can't be. She's not. Why isn't she listening?

Swallowing heavily, he forces himself to take action. "Tara…actually, Tara told me…a couple of days ago, Tara told me that if it wasn't for my feelings for you, she might want to go out with me."

Bianca's thousand mile stare breaks, and all of sudden, she's back in the present, focusing on him sharply. "What are you telling _me_ for?"

"I was just w-wondering if maybe…if that meant something to you." He glances hopefully at her. "Anything at all?"

"Why should it?" Bianca asks absent-mindedly, getting up to rummage through one of the fine mahogany cupboards behind her. "Wilshire, hand me my lunchbox."

His stomach knotting with nerves, Wilshire stands up and opens the fridge to gingerly hand her the silver-plated, dainty lunchbox that the butler prepares for her most evenings, holding it open for her as she places something from the cupboard into it.

Still waiting nervously for her answer, it takes him a second or two to register what she's put in the lunchbox. "Uh, Bianca? What do you need all this Belgian chocolate Ex-lax for? Are you not feeling well?"

Bianca blinks. "What Ex-lax?"

Wilshire frowns. "The Ex-lax you just packed for lunch?"

Bianca stares blankly down into the lunchbox. "Did I?"

His shoulders droop, then. "Don't tell me you're going to put it in someone's food tomorrow?"

Bianca's expression turns into a sort of uncomfortable grimace. "Uh…"

"You _are_! Oh, Bianca, that's terrible! Who? Who are you going to—?" He stops, a flash of surprised realization hitting him. "It's not for Tara, is it?"

Bianca freezes up. She did the whole thing without thinking, and especially not about the why of it. Now the _why_ hits her like a punch to the gut.

Oh, god, no.

This cannot be her life.

Wilshire's leaning forward now, his hand resting on the table and his face screwed up with bewildered curiosity. "Bianca? Were you really going to make Tara sick just because…? Just because she might want to date me?"

Suddenly, Bianca doesn't know if she wants to throw up or scream. Carefully, she wraps one arm around her tender stomach, groaning. "Wilshire Brentwood," she presses out thickly, "I don't know _where_ you get your ideas, but—"

But he's beaming now. "Oh, Bianca! That's the kind of thing you usually only do for Troy! You'd really do that because of me? I mean, it's a _terrible_ thing to do, but still— my darling, to think I could provoke in you such anger, such _passion_…!"

"I think I'm going to be _sick_…!"

"Such— huh? Sick?" He reaches out for her, concerned. "You didn't eat any of the Ex-lax, did you?"

She immediately shakes his hand off her arm. "Of _course_ not, you imbecile!"

"Then what are you…? Are you okay?"

"No! I am _not_ 'okay'! I have, in fact, never been _further from_ okay!"

"Oh. Um…i-is there anything I can do?"

"This is just. Not. Happening."

"What isn't happening?"

"It's your fault! You just keep begging and begging— it's just a fluke!" Her voice turns shrill. "That's what it is! It's a _fluke_!"

Again, he automatically reaches out for her in his worry, but this time he manages to stop himself, lest she bite his arm off. She clearly didn't want the attention. "What's…? Bianca, did I do something wrong?"

"Everything! _Always_ everything! But that's beside the point!" She throws her hands up. "Just— forget it! It doesn't matter! It's a fluke."

He's been frowning in confusion for a while now, but finally, Wilshire pauses to study her face instead of her words. Unless his eyes are playing tricks on him, it appears that she's actually blushing.

For a moment, he can only stare at her. It's not until she notices, punishing him with a hard, annoyed glare, that he averts his eyes.

"Okay, Bianca. Whatever you say, as always." His smile is soft. "You know what? I think I'm ready to go home now."

"Huh?" She frowns at him. "Go home? But what about your parents?"

"Well, I was…um, I was going to ask if it would be possible for me to stay the night here, but…somehow, I think it'll be okay. I might as well talk to them right away, instead of postponing the inevitable." He gives a weak grin. "Besides, by the time I get home, they've had an hour or two to calm down."

Bianca splutters. "You were actually going to ask to spend the night here? Where in the world— what do you think you're— what kind of presumptions— just because I was considering playing a _teensy_ little prank on Tara— it had nothing to do with you!"

He blinks at her. "Huh? I was just…going to ask if I could sleep in the guest house."

She tries to ignore the way her face is burning. "Oh. So…_not_ in my bedroom?"

His heart is suddenly being squeezed in his chest. "Y-you mean you'd actually _let _me? B-because I'd be content with the foot of the bed, or even just the sofa or the floor—"

Now she can actually feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, mortification and disgusted anger running hot and cold down her spine. "No! Of _course_ I wouldn't let you! And could you _be_ anymore pathetic? The _floor_? Seriously?"

Wilshire sighs, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. "I know, it's just that I suppose I've learned not to get my hopes up. With you, I usually try to aim low."

"You always aim low, no matter what you're doing," she retorts, on autopilot. She almost regrets it, but it seems he takes it for what it was; lets it roll off of him.

"Well, not always…sometimes I do get carried away." He moves slowly towards the door. "Anyway, I guess I should be heading home. I think I may have left your dry cleaning there."

"What? Wilshire!" She stomps her foot. "I needed that by tomorrow evening!"

"Don't worry, I'll have it ready." He's at the kitchen entrance. It wouldn't be the first time he's used it, even if his parents would probably be mortified if they knew. This time, however, Bianca is getting up from her chair to sort of…stand there, uncertainly, as if waiting for something. Usually, she barely even looks up when he leaves for the day.

It makes his head fill up some of the most hopeful thoughts he's ever had. Considering how most of his wishes end up being stubbed out like so many dying cigarettes under size five Jimmy Choo heels, hope tends to scare him as much as it elates him.

He tries to swallow to rid himself of the knot in his throat, tries to breathe to keep his lungs from feeling like they're being stepped on. Apparently, she feels…something. It could be, like she said, a fluke, but he chooses to be optimistic.

And besides, she _is_ his hero for the evening. She deserves a final bit of attention. He just hopes he hasn't chosen the inappropriate kind.

"Good night, Bianca," he says, sweeping her hand into his and kissing it carefully. Then he beams at her. "And again…thank you so much for your help!"

As he turns to leave, not even daring to see what her reaction is, he's stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Listen, Wilshire, this doesn't mean anything. It's merely for luck. Just so you won't get—" She shudders. "—disowned. After all, I wouldn't even wish that on my worst enemy—" A sweetly evil smile graces her lips for a moment. "Oh, _well_, maybe Larke, but— anyway."

Drawing a breath, she leans forward to finally kiss him where he's always wanted her to; on the lips this time. But just a quick one, just a little peck. It's nothing.

As she catches sight of his awed, almost frightened expression, however, she exhales, drawing back sharply. "No! There's no way! I just can't do it!"

His face falls. "Bianca—"

She's already shoving him out the door. "Good luck or whatever! Just— just go!"

As the door slams shut, he sighs.

Even if he spends the rest of the night wondering what he did wrong with her _this_ time, however, it doesn't take anything away from his ability to convince his parents of his love for Miss Bianca Dupree.

They don't quite get it, but then again, neither does he.

And neither does Bianca, who experiences her first sleepless night since the time she knew she might have to go on stage as Juliet.

She has no idea what to say to him at school tomorrow. Before, she never even considered _needing_ to have anything to say at all.

**The End.**


	2. Acid

**Dirt **

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Author's notes:** I've decided to continue the story, and to make it fit between episode 63, _Troy Triathlon,_ and the last episode, the double-episode (episodes 64 and 65) Christmas special _Miracle at the Teen Club_. Me and Coin of Light and Darkness both found it interesting that Bianca is no longer chasing Troy in the last two episodes, among other things. It might not be intentionally done by the show writers, of course, but I like the implications that may or may not be interpreted from this.

**The Silver Valley episode referred to in the story:** Episode 54, "Roughing It".

**The episode where Wilshire gets a makeover:** Episode 4, "My Fair Wilshire".

* * *

She's scared.

She's actually scared.

That's the thing. She's just walking into her own classroom, the way she always does, five out of seven weekdays, but she's scared.

And she's early. In fact, she's so early that the only other student there is Shanelle, the class go-getter. Shanelle has probably even managed to squeeze in a morning jog or a tennis session before school.

Bianca Dupree is never early. She's not late, either (you can't be fashionably late for school, only social functions) but she's never one of the first to arrive (unless her scheming forces her to). Today, however, she had to be.

Wilshire usually picks her up at eight thirty to drive her to school.

Bianca made sure to leave at eight fifteen, burning rubber.

She just couldn't face him. But as soon as she was on the road, she realized her mistake: Doing somebody this out of the ordinary would only bring attention to the fact that something was wrong. That things were not as usual.

Now, he'll come up to her during the first break and ask her why she didn't wait for him. And she will have no answer.

Her normally brilliant, scheming mind doesn't seem to be functioning properly today.

She wishes her seat wasn't right behind Wilshire's. She'll be forced to stare past his shoulders every time she looks at the teacher or the blackboard. And to think that a couple of days ago, she wouldn't have given this a second thought.

"Bianca? Are you okay?» asks Shanelle, an actual hint of worry in her voice.

"Yes," Bianca replies, but her body language, her expression and the tone of her voice all say "No."

She'll have to get that under control before anyone else can have the chance to notice.

"Okay, if you're sure," Shanelle says skeptically. Bianca can tell she's curious, but Shanelle doesn't really know Bianca well enough to feel comfortable prodding her further.

When Wilshire shows up, he's late for class, and everybody else has already arrived. He receives a stern scowl from the teacher, but he barely seems to notice the reprimand.

It's clear to her, from the way he's panting, and the wild-eyed, worried expression on his face, that he's been running, and that he's utterly baffled about her absence. He must've waited nearly half an hour for her, if he's _this_ late.

Bianca wants to sink through the floor and disappear.

When he lays eyes upon her, there's a moment when his expression brightens with utter relief to see her there, and she wonders if he was afraid something bad had happened to her. Then, however, his eyes fill up with hurt, and he merely looks lost.

Maybe, she reflects, as he shuffles across the floor and takes his seat, his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped, things really would be less complicated if she just waited for him like usual.

* * *

It surprises her when he doesn't immediately turn around in his chair to talk to her when the bell rings. She avoids looking at him as she gathers her few school things and walks briskly (but hopefully not at _too_ conspicuous a pace) out the door.

Her grip tightens on her pencil case as she hears familiar footsteps hurrying down the hall. Nobody's else are that heavy, and when she hears a momentary stumble, she's sure it's him running to catch up with her.

He must've been hesitating.

Wilshire slows down as he reaches her, and doesn't dare to call out or touch her shoulder. Instead, he merely trails behind her, close by, his nervous gaze glued to the back of her head.

"…Bianca?"

"What?"

He can't quite interpret her tone, which is strangely neutral, and it doesn't help his nerves any. "Um...why didn't you wait for me to drive you to school this morning? Is…is something wrong?"

"No, I just didn't feel like it."

"But I _always_ drive you to school." He's becoming aware, in a distracted sort of way, that he might be starting to sound like a pouting child.

"Exactly. Maybe I was sick of it. Maybe I wanted a change."

"Oh. Does that mean you don't want me to pick you up tomorrow, either?" he asks, trying and failing to keep the wounded, wheedling tone out of his voice. He can't stop himself. She's spun him around more than usual, and his already fairly well-developed sense of insecurity is clawing at the inside of his chest, trying to force itself out of his mouth.

Bianca sighs. "No, that's…fine."

He sighs, too, but his is out of relief. Here's some sort of reassurance. Finally. "Thank you, Bianca."

"The family chauffeur has to drive my mother tomorrow, anyway," she adds. He knows he's not always the best at reading social cues, but he spends so much time around her that even he can tell when she's lying. At least most of the time. Sometimes.

"Oh." He stops walking, confused and hurt again. Why would she lie about that? Does she want him to think she only wants him to drive her again because it's convenient, and for no other reason?

Bianca stops and glances back at him for a second, but soon goes on her way again, entering the lunch hall without him.

Wilshire is left standing alone in the hallway as it empties itself of students. For a moment, he needs to just…pause.

If he goes in there now, what with how nervous he is, he might start binge eating again, and that's the last thing he wants.

Leaning against the wall for a minute or so, he closes his eyes and takes a few fortifying breaths, in and out.

It's been a dizzying couple of days, even though today, he's barely reached noon. When she defended him to his parents, and especially when she appeared to be jealous of Tara, he got his hopes up. He didn't want to, because it always ends in disappointment, but he couldn't control it. He _hoped_. Ever since this morning, he's really wished he hadn't.

Eventually, he stands back up. Okay. He just needs to focus on the most important thing: She won't ditch him again on her way to school tomorrow. He'll be picking her up and driving her to school like always.

When he's bought his lunch and approaches her table, she's sitting with Buck and Shanelle, who are discussing fairly loudly. It seems Buck has decided that he'd like to represent Shanelle in any of her further political endeavors, but Shanelle doesn't appear any too keen on the suggestion.

"What do _you_ know about politics, Buck?"

"Shanelle Spencer— baby, sweetie, honey— I know LA, I know Hollywood, I know all the local bigwigs who might like to sponsor an up-and-coming young person such as yourself, and I know about _style_— with the right look and presentation, you could go_ far_, kid—"

"_Excuse_ me? What's wrong with my _look_?"

Wilshire sighs to himself and tunes them out. He doesn't have the presence of mind to follow such a conversation right now.

Bianca's not really talking to them, either. When he gives her a quick, timid smile and sits down next to her, she doesn't comment, but at least she looks up at him, if even for just a moment.

Most days, Bianca Dupree would dominate the conversation, no matter the topic. And if the topic didn't interest her, she'd simply change it to her liking. Not the case today.

She's only sitting there, picking at her food. He wants to ask her to please eat properly, but he doubts such a remark would be welcome from him.

"I…I delivered your dry cleaning this morning," he says, giving one last attempt at influencing her lukewarm mood. "It should be ready before tonight. Like you wanted."

"Good, we'll pick it up on the way from school," she says, and that's that. Her wall of silence is resurrected. She doesn't even bother to tell him what she needs the outfits for.

When it's almost time for the next class, he discovers that he's finished not only his own lunch, but also Buck's bran muffin and one of Shanelle's triangular roast duck sandwiches.

They're so wrapped up in conversation that they haven't noticed him eating their food at all— heck, he's barely noticed it himself, until it was too late— and when Switchboard pops up to do a quick interview with Shanelle about some upcoming event she's organizing, they're even further distracted. Especially since Buck relentlessly tries to butt in on the interview.

Wilshire feels sick, both mentally and physically, as it sinks in what he's done, once again. He really didn't mean to.

"I'm sure the school nurse has some antacids," says Bianca as she stands up, most of her own lunch abandoned on her plate.

Again, he can't quite read her tone, so neutral once more, but it doesn't stop the humiliation from bubbling up in him. He's doubtlessly embarrassed himself in front of her. He supposes he should be used to it by now, though.

"Thanks," he mumbles, needing something to say, regardless of whether she meant it as a polite piece of advice or a mocking insult.

"I'm going to class," she adds, then, and the simple relief of not having her just disappear again without a word, almost makes up for everything.

Almost.

He hurries to the nurse's office, as fast as his overstuffed stomach will allow him, and manages to make it to class _just_ in time.

Five minutes later, though, he can't quite contain the inevitable burp. As the rest of the class laughs, and the teacher tuts sternly, he pulls his hat down to cover his eyes and sinks down in his chair, attempting to shrink.

He can't quite pick out Bianca's laugh in the crowd, but then she's possibly not laughing. She's never been much amused by bodily noises.

* * *

The following day, Wilshire finds himself idle after finishing up his homework in the Teen Club library, so he decides to take a stroll down to the pool for a refreshing cherry soda or a quick swim.

At this point, he's not sure if Bianca's presence makes him less or more inclined to visit the poolside. He _always_ wants to see her, of course, he can't help that, but these days…he has even less of a clue what to say to her. She's the one who usually does most of the talking, and now she's…_not_.

When he arrives, there seems to be some sort of unofficial contest going on between Troy, Gig and Pierce.

"Hey, guys, what're you up to?"

"Hey, Wilshire!" Gig greets him genially. "We're just having a friendly weight lifting contest...and so far, it looks like yours truly's in the _lead_, mate!" he adds, grinning.

Pierce shooting Gig a rather annoyed look isn't anything out of the ordinary, but Wilshire isn't accustomed to seeing the same expression, complete with bared teeth, mirrored on Troy's normally friendly face. When Troy turns his head to Wilshire, however, he's smiling. "Hey, Wilshire, can you hand me that weight behind you? The really _big_ one?"

For some reason, Gig snickers a little.

Always eager to help, Wilshire picks up the first and biggest weight he sees, and holds it out to Troy in his right hand. "You mean this one?"

Troy's eyes go very wide. "Uhm…"

Pierce's jaw drops; so do the two weights he's holding. Gig gives a low whistle.

Suddenly, everybody's staring at him. Wilshire's automatic response is to cringe. He's used to feeling all eyes on him, but it's rarely ever because of anything good.

"Did I do something wrong?" Wilshire appeals to Troy, already mentally preparing himself for making the apology.

Troy is still looking shocked. "Uh, no…that's okay, Wilshire. It was me, I really should've specified…that I meant the biggest _dumbbell_, and not the…uh, _barbell_."

"Oh. Okay." Replacing the barbell on the rack, he picks up the heaviest dumbbell and hands it to Troy, who appears to momentarily buckle under the weight. "This one?" he asks, still concerned he's getting it wrong.

"Y-yes." Troy's voice comes out oddly strained, as he carefully shifts the dumbbell so he can hold it in both hands instead. "That one. Perfect."

Relieved, Wilshire smiles. "Great! Good luck with your little contest!"

"Thanks, but I don't think it's much of a _contest_ anymore," Troy mutters, his lips pursing.

Wilshire shoots him a quizzical look, but Troy is already turning his back on him to rejoin the other two boys, making himself unavailable for any elaboration.

When Wilshire turns to go, though, he's stopped in his tracks by the fact that, from farther down the poolside, Bianca is also staring at him, just like the others. Unlike the rest of his impromptu audience, however, she snaps out of it the second she realizes he's noticed.

For a moment, he's rooted to the spot by another internal debate over whether to go join her or not. He always has some basic urge to be around her, but there seems to be some sort of tense aura emanating from her direction; one towards which even _he_ can't be oblivious.

Besides, she's got that spoiled, pink poodle with her. Normally, he loves animals, but that dog _hates_ him.

Frowning, Wilshire continues on his quest to find a robot waiter. He can't understand why people should be staring. He only hopes he hasn't torn his bathing suit somewhere embarrassing or leaned on wet paint or been pooped on by a passing bird or something again. It's exactly the sort of thing that would happen to him.

As he scouts around the poolside, robot waiters seem to be in short supply. Perhaps the Teen Club Café is full and needed the extra robot staff?

Wilshire sighs. The sun is blazing, the wind is still, and an icy cold cherry soda is starting to sound better and better—

"Help! Help!"

Startled at the sudden cry of a female voice, Wilshire whirls around.

Fortunately, he's finally spotted a waiter robot. Unfortunately, this particular waiter robot is in the process of crushing Tara under the considerable weight of its metal body. Only a broken table and her own strength is so far saving Tara, but it won't last long.

Experiencing a rush of indecision and panic, Wilshire looks urgently around, but the other boys have apparently given up on their contest and are retreating to the Teen Club Café. They've already almost reached the front door, and don't even appear to have heard Tara. For a brief moment, Troy pauses, but then continues through the door. It seems like he must've thought whatever noise he heard was only in his imagination.

Turning back, he catches sight of Bianca in the distance, standing up from her folding chair, her body language signaling her uncertain evaluation of the situation. It isn't in Bianca's nature to play the hero, so the fact that she seems to be considering it at all (presumably for no other reason than because nobody else is acting on it) is interesting, but Wilshire can't let her try.

While she's a spitfire in her own right, and physically stronger than Tara, she still doesn't quite possess the required muscle power, and the thought of her accidentally _hurting_ herself in the attempt is too much to bear—

Setting his jaw with determination, Wilshire takes off at a run. He knows he's not fast, and as he tries to reach the struggling, endangered girl, he feels like he's trapped in syrup, moving through a nightmare. It seems to take forever to get there, even though it must only take a few seconds.

When he reaches Tara and the robot, he grabs one metallic arm with both hands, grits his teeth, braces his feet against the ground, and pulls. He sighs in relief when it soon starts to budge. In the blink of an eye, he's managed to pull it off her cowering form, push it away and let it fall, crashing to the ground.

Now, Tara is crawling slowly from behind the overturned table, panting and wide-eyed. "My stars! I'm— I don't know what happened, I was just coming to relax by the pool for a minute, but as soon as I'd sat down, this robot came rolling by with its arms full of weights, and all of sudden, it just—" Tara draws a shuddering breath. "It just plain ol' _malfunctioned_, I think, and it sort of just _spun_ around and _lurched _forward, with _all these weights_, and— oh, I was so _scared_!"

Overwhelmed by her distressed speech, Wilshire can only give her an awkward pat on her shoulder. "A-are you okay, Tara?"

Tara blinks, appearing slightly dazed. "What? Oh! Yes, I think so! No broken bones, and hardly even a bruise, it seems!" She clasps her hands together, giving him something he's never received before, and only recognizes because he's seen the other girls give them to Troy so often: an actual, honest-to-goodness _starry-eyed look_. "And it's all thanks to _you_, Wilshire Brentwood! Why, I _do_ believe you're a genuine _hero_!"

Wilshire's face turning red, he chuckles awkwardly. "Aww, I don't know about _that_…!"

Meanwhile, Bianca has sat back down, flabbergasted by the scene that just transpired right in front of her. She's seen Wilshire coming to the rescue plenty of times before, of course, but it's usually for her, and he usually only makes things _worse_ by trying to help her.

Not this time.

He's successfully rescued somebody from severe bodily harm, and even managed to look good while doing it. Tara certainly seems to think so, anyway, what with how she's fussing over him.

And he's being modest, almost shy about Tara's praise, as if he doesn't even realize he's done something newsworthy. It's just like him to have no head for free public attention. Now he's tidying up the dumbbells the robot left strewn about him as it crashed. The almost casual way he's moving and breathing during this task, you'd think the dumbbells were made from Styrofoam.

And Bianca simply cannot keep from staring. When Troy, Pierce and Gig were lifting weights earlier, she barely even registered their presence, too engrossed in the latest edition of Teen Scene Magazine and playing with Empress (and some rather private thoughts that she was trying to repress).

How is it that when _Wilshire_ entered the scene, she forgot everything else? It's _just _Wilshire.

What's the problem? She already knew Wilshire's big and strong. Who cares? He's always been big. It's one of the reasons she took him on as a chauffeur, assistant, accomplice and all around slave. He looked like he could carry a lot of heavy things simultaneously, which was a skill she required.

So it's not like she's never noticed before.

The only trouble might be that she's never really _noticed_ before.

The broadness of his chest and back (she usually only notices the broadness of his _face_, if anything).

His height. He's towering over Tara, who's more or less the same height as Bianca herself. Going by that, he must reach at least an inch or two above guys like Troy and Gig. Usually, he appears so small; not only because his bad posture makes it seem so, but because he's so often nervous, groveling or apologetic around her.

The way his biceps bulge as he picks up another weight. The thickness of his arms, his calves, his thighs. How solid and heavy they look. How much easier it is to study these things when he's in his swimwear.

His surprisingly trim waist (although not as narrow and tightened by exercise as the other guys') complementing his broad back and giving him an overall appealing shape.

He's by no means a perfect physical specimen. He's still a goofy looking idiot with no neck and no fashion sense (she's always thought the outdated, striped bathing suit he's wearing is particularly hideous), and he could stand to work on his posture and lose a few pounds, and with that extra padding, his muscles are _hardly _what you'd call _toned_ and—and he's really not—

_He's_ _really not bad at all_…

Bianca swallows hard as she realizes that she very nearly bit her own fingernail. Her freshly manicured nail. From her three hundred dollar manicure. Yet she keeps staring at Wilshire, as if he's a five car pile-up on Rodeo Drive. _She_ should know what sort of attention those receive; he's _caused_ at least one himself.

Only now has it occurred to her that on their way to Silver Valley earlier this year, he carried a 160 pound bag up a mountain. Furthermore, on the way down, he not only carried the bag, but he also carried Bianca Dupree.

It shouldn't come as a big surprise that he was able to lift, in a single hand, a weight that most guys would find hard to budge with both hands.

It simply hasn't crossed her mind before now. She was too busy focusing on her aching feet, because she elected to go hiking in heels, and on scolding him for accidentally smushing her as he leaned against the mountainside.

It's no wonder she hasn't considered his admittedly impressive brute strength (or even the admittedly pleasant shape of his body) before. These things are usually eclipsed by the sheer physical clumsiness of the boy, or his utter lack of verbal _cool_.

But now, even at a distance, watching his lightly tanned skin move across those muscles, watching him effortlessly moving those weights—

As he straightens back up, job done, Tara is reaching out and up, daintily smoothing her fingers across Wilshire's forehead, where his normally passé haircut keeps every hair in its place. Now, the side sweep of his caramel bangs has fallen partly into his face. Tara lovingly brushes the locks back out of the way before unhurriedly withdrawing her hand.

Wilshire shoots Tara one of his socially inept little smiles.

Tara had told him she might have considered dating him. That's what he said.

If not for Bianca, Tara might take a chance.

Something hurts. It's in her chest, her stomach— she's not sure, it seems to be everywhere— and Bianca finds herself clutching Empress a little too tightly, hears the purebred poodle start whining—

This does not feel like a fluke, if it ever even did in the first place.

Tara's returning Wilshire's smile now. Hers is sweet and a tad less shy than Wilshire's.

Bianca lets Empress down from her lap. There shouldn't be anything she cares about near her hands right now. She might harm or break it without meaning to. Her hands are curling into claws, her expensive manicure biting into her palms as she watches.

Wilshire should really wear his hair slightly disheveled more often. And Tara should really be touching it _never_.

Tara is giggling now, girlishly hiding her mouth behind her half-opened fan. "I honestly don't know _how_ to _thank_ ya'll, Wilshire!"

"No problem, Tara! Really!" Wilshire smiles that sunny, dimpled smile. The one he usually directs at her. "I just like feeling useful!"

Bianca suddenly wishes she'd brought that Belgian chocolate Ex-lax from home. It would be _so_ _easy_ to slip some into Tara's regular chocolate milkshake, which she's _bound_ to order later…

And to _think _she actually considered saving Tara herself, only a few minutes ago…!

The problem is that, come to think of it, this isn't the first time she's felt like these unsuitable things about Wilshire. Protective. Possessive.

When Pierce and Radley gave him a makeover, Larke and Tara promoted him as the new hunk of Beverly Hills, and Larke was suddenly on his arm, Bianca did everything she could to get him back. At first, it was simply about competing with Larke like always, and not letting the other girl take anything away from her. But it didn't take long before she was angry, even upset, because he didn't seem to be interested in her anymore, even though he so clearly belonged to her.

Nobody is going to steal him away.

Looking down, Bianca notices that Empress has started playing with a tennis ball that somebody must've dropped.

She stares at the round, yellow shape, mesmerized.

"I swear I would _not_ have known what to do without y'all to help me," Tara says, her fingers briefly resting on Wilshire's forearm before dancing away again.

"I didn't do much," Wilshire objects bashfully, "I'm sure you could've eventually managed on your own."

"Why, Wilshire Brentwood, how you _flatter_ me! And while a few folks could stand to be as modest as y'all?" This time, Tara's hand lingers on Wilshire's arm, reassuringly. "_Don't_ be. You deserve any bit of praise you get—"

Before Bianca knows it, the tennis ball is already in her hand— and then, as if by magic, the ball has vanished.

She didn't mean to throw it.

She really didn't. Not necessarily because it goes against her _morals_, but because she likes to think she has more self-control than that. She's betrayed herself.

She can hear Empress barking in complaint over the loss of her newfound toy, but mostly, her world has been distilled down to the simple fact that Tara is clutching at her head and groaning in pain, in as lady-like a manner as she can manage—

—and the fact that, after Wilshire has put a gallant, steadying hand on Tara's arm, keeping her from wobbling on the spot, he turns his head towards Bianca.

Wilshire is staring open-mouthed at her, and the expression doesn't seem to fade much even as he starts to make his way towards her.

Her mouth suddenly feeling dry, and her chest tight, Bianca grabs for the magazine she was reading earlier, pretending to be engrossed in its contents.

At least she isn't blushing too much. At least that's something. At least that's _anything_.

As he slowly approaches Bianca, Wilshire doesn't quite know how to feel, or what to think. There's just too much happening in his head at once. There is, however, _one_ thought that finally shoulders past all the rest.

Even in his befuddled state, he's aware that he has little chance of getting a straight answer. Yet he still means to ask. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he also knows that he should be scolding her for her actions instead, but he needs to ask first, needs to know.

"…Bianca? Are you actually jealous of Tara, after all?" he asks, trying to keep his voice down. Judging by the faint, pink tinge on her naturally pale cheeks, Bianca's already aware that she's embarrassed herself. Wilshire doesn't want to embarrass her further by having Tara overhear the conversation.

Bianca's blush is slowly fading now, though, and her expression remains neutral. She doesn't even bother to look up at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You threw a tennis ball at her, Bianca," Wilshire points out, as gently as he can. "That wasn't necessary," he adds, his eyebrows knitting, "or very nice at all."

Bianca's eyes are still focused on her magazine. "Are you sure that wasn't Jillian or Chester? You know _kids_— always goofing around." Her voice is almost as neutral as her expression now, but with an added, condescending politeness that he knows so well. Sometimes he wishes he had her capacity for coldness. Other times, it's the last thing he wants.

"But I _saw _you do it, and Jillian and Chester aren't even _here_ today," he insists, feeling partly disconnected from reality for a second. Having dealt with Bianca Dupree and her delusions of grandeur on a regular basis, this sensation is hardly new to him, but his own perception of reality isn't normally _this_ far off hers, at least when it comes to her assessments of her own behavior or potential. After all, he admires her and believes in her, and thinks she could do anything if she really wanted to, including carving her beautiful likeness into the surface of the moon.

This, however, as even he will occasionally admit, is one of her more brazen lies.

"In that case, you must be experiencing hallucinations due to sunstroke," she concludes dryly, still not lifting her gaze. "I suggest you go sit in the shade for a while."

He doesn't want to go sit in the shade. He wants to throw himself down on his knees and beg her to look at him. Beg her to tell him the truth. But he knows from experience that pleading seldom works on her.

The sense of disappointment and bewilderment is dull and heavy, and seems to weigh him down, bending his back. He has no idea where he gathers the will or energy to say what he says next. "Okay, well…whatever happened or didn't happen, I just thought I'd tell you…if Tara ever _does_ ask me out…I won't say yes."

This time, her gaze actually flickers to his face for a second, but that second is all he gets, before her magazine returns to being more interesting than him. "As I've said before, Wilshire, I don't know why you're telling _me_."

Wilshire sighs. "Me, neither."

"Now _shoo_, you're in my sunlight."

"Yes, Bianca."

He goes to apologize to Tara. Bianca probably never will, so somebody should. Meanwhile, Tara has developed a welt on her forehead and a hint of tears in her eyes, and Radley has materialized from somewhere or other to offer words of comfort.

Horrified and feeling somehow responsible, Wilshire instantly offers to take her to the Teen Club in-house nurse.

However, Tara declines, mumbling sweet, but evasive little white lies about how Radley has offered already. Looking confused, Radley nevertheless takes her arm and escorts her. For some distance, Wilshire follows, keeping up a steady babble of apologies on Bianca's behalf, but he soon gives up.

Timid Tara, who's always been the girl most intimidated by Bianca Dupree, has apparently been frightened off. Understandably, what with this coming right after her robot scare, she wants to get lost as fast as possible.

In retrospect, Wilshire supposes he should have stopped longer than he did to check on Tara first. He knows he's hopeless, but he was just so bowled over that he couldn't help himself. He had to go to Bianca. She's been acting so strange lately, and he had to have an explanation.

He did not, however, get one. Not to mention Tara's hurt and upset.

All for nothing.

Wilshire feels suddenly hollow. Empty.

There are so many things he needs and wants from Bianca Dupree. So many things he needs to hear.

He might not ever get to hear them.

Wilshire practically staggers back to the pool. When he's found a table at a sufficient distance from Bianca, he snags the attention of a passing (and functioning) waiter robot and orders not only that cherry soda, but the largest and most expensive hamburger on the menu. A menu that he knows by heart.

He knows he shouldn't. Lunch wasn't _that _long ago. Yet he does.

When he's about to take the first, guilt-ridden bite, though, he finds that his Kobe beef hamburger has been snatched out of his hands by none other than Bianca Dupree.

He gawks as she scowls at him and puts the hamburger back onto his plate so she can cut it into tiny pieces. This behavior bewilders him further, until she finally puts the plate down on the ground, in order to feed it to Empress instead.

Now he has to fight the urge to break down and cry with pure frustration. She's actually followed him over here just to take away the _only_ thing he has left (except for that million dollar monthly allowance, of course)? And even worse, to give it to an animal that _detests_ him? "Bianca, that's too cruel— practically stealing my lunch out of my _mouth_—!"

But Bianca doesn't look guilty at all. Her eyes are narrowed, pinning him with a scowl. "Wilshire Brentwood, you've already _had_ lunch today," she says, her voice gone icy and sharp. "Not to mention you've already had to take antacids _twice_ this week. I didn't want to see you try for a_ third_."

His face feels abruptly hot. "B-Bianca…!"

"As it wasn't already enough that you constantly _announce_ your feelings for me to the world, like you're some sort of teenage town crier?" Her nose wrinkles with disgust. "Now I have to watch you_ eat_ your feelings, too?"

"Bianca…?" Wilshire feels as if he's been struck by lightning, splitting him open. How does she even _know_ about his shameful coping methods? All he's ever mentioned to her is that he eats when he's nervous. Nothing else. And she's never asked. She's never seemed to care much.

"It's bad for you to stuff yourself like this. Both physically and mentally bad," she's saying now, her tone changing. She's leaning over him and scolding him in a way that's so much milder and quieter than her usual screaming, violent lectures. "You should take better care of yourself."

By now, Empress has cleaned her plate, and has started yipping. Knowing her pampered personality, she probably wants dessert, too.

For once, though, Bianca's attention remains on him. She barely seems to notice the noises her beloved dog is making.

"Bianca, you're…actually _worried _about me?" he asks, looking up at her in wonder, his voice hardly above a whisper, as if speaking normally will provoke her infamous anger.

Her eyes widen, her eyebrows knit together, and her mouth opens and closes, like she has no idea what to say—

Three seconds later, all he can do is gape as she takes a sudden running start and dives into the pool.


	3. Pile

**Dirt**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Author's notes: **Episodes mentioned in this chapter:

**Pierce, Radley and Troy only pretending to be Wilshire's friends so they could get some fancy license plates out of him:** Episode 56, "The Kindest Cut of All".

**The Silver Spoon cup/Wilshire frozen in a block of ice:** The events mentioned were from the third episode in a row that depicted the Silver Spoon Cup; Episode 63, "Troy Triathlon".

**Bianca can't remember considering him as a young man (not while she knew it was him, anyway):** In episode 4, "My Fair Wilshire", Bianca was admiring how handsome Wilshire looked…when he had gotten a makeover and she didn't actually know it was him. After she found out it was him, however, she did admit to herself later that he looked 'pretty cute'.

**Bianca "sleep walking" and kissing Wilshire:** Episode 26, "Fairy Tale Flake Out".

**Bianca kissing Wilshire that time she had just woken up from that nightmare, after falling asleep by the pool:** Episode 35, "Bianca's Dream".

**Buck's Christmas party:** Episodes 64 and 65, the double-episode Christmas special "_Miracle at the Teen Club"._

* * *

Bianca feels hot and nauseous as she peels her wet bathing suit off in the changing room.

She's losing control, and she doesn't like it.

Her hair is as wet as her suit, dripping chlorinated water on the marble floor. In that awkward moment, she saw no other distraction— solution— _escape_ than to go jump in the pool.

In retrospect, she should have simply excused herself to go to the bathroom instead. That would have seemed _much_ less like panic.

Why had it even crossed her mind to meddle in his diet? Like all other Beverly Hills Teen Club members, he has a very expensive family physician to take care of his health. He's probably completely fine.

Probably.

Bianca screws her eyes shut as she steps into the shower.

She's never felt the need to fuss over him like that before. Has she? She can't quite remember right now.

Not to mention she can't remember ever staring at him like that, actually studying what he looks like. Can't remember considering him as a young man (not while she knew it was _him_, anyway). In fact, she can't remember ever (as Radley or Jett might say) 'totally checking him out'.

It's really not right. It's _only_ Wilshire Brentwood.

She needs to stop it. All of it. If she doesn't, people will begin to talk.

In fact, they already have, haven't they?

The changing room robots are done toweling her off, blow-drying her hair and dressing her in one of the fresh outfits always available for her at the Club, when a most unwelcome face appears.

"Hi, Bianca!" Larke is in the doorway, beaming in a friendly manner. Judging by her outfit, she's been out riding horses with Blaze.

"Cut the faux sweetness and light, Larke Tanner," Bianca hisses. She hates it whenever she runs into Larke at the club or around town, especially the few times they're both alone. And to make Things worse, Bianca hasn't even had time to put on new make-up after her shower. "I know you've all been gossiping about me," she adds, as Larke blinks at her in surprise.

Larke hovers by the doorway of the changing room, as if she's uncertain if she wants to enter after all. "Pardon me?"

Bianca grabs her make-up bag from the waiting robot and starts rummaging roughly through it. "Oh, don't pretend like you haven't. After all, everyone _else_ has— _including_ Troy!"

Larke is still hanging back. "I'm sorry, but I didn't—"

"Everyone's favorite hobby lately is passing judgment on whatever they _think_ is going on between Wilshire and I," says Bianca, shooting Larke a pointed look before she starts applying her foundation in front of the mirror the robot is now holding up for her. "Troy said that I treat him like dirt."

"Oh. That." Larke's reply is flat and cautious, but she nevertheless walks into the room, handing her riding helmet and her used towel to a waiting robot. "Well, I _have_ overheard a few things, and if you want _my_ opinion—"

"I never want your opinion, but by all means, throw your two million in. Like I said, everyone _else_ has," Bianca huffs, pausing as she switches to reapplying the luxurious green eye shadow she's become addicted to this year. "I just don't get it— I mean, I've_ always_ treated Wilshire…uh, _less than kindly_. It's not _new_. Why comment on it _now_, all of a sudden?"

Larke clears her throat softly. "If you want my opinion, I think the gossip started after the Silver Spoon Cup."

"How do you mean?" Bianca sounds distracted as she applies her mascara.

"For one thing, you kind of…_kissed_ Wilshire in front of everybody?"

Bianca freezes, lowering her mascara wand. "Oh. _That_."

She should never have kissed him. Even if it was just on the cheek.

What might be worse is that it wasn't even the first time she ever kissed him in public— the previous time, though, it was perfectly clear to everybody that she was merely sleep walking— sleep kissing— _whatever_. Therefore, she got away with the excuse that she didn't know what she was doing. All the girls believed her when she later claimed she was dreaming about kissing Troy, simply because most of them have had the same dream plenty of times themselves.

Even Wilshire believed her, when she used the excuse to defend herself against his newly minted high hopes. She can still remember the way his smile faded and the joy drained out of his eyes.

Or— wait— that wasn't the previous time she kissed him in public— there was also that time she had just woken up from that nightmare, after falling asleep by the pool— so relieved by finding that everyone was back to their normal selves, especially Wilshire, who'd been cold, dismissive and cruel to her in the dream, she grabbed him and covered his entire face with kiss marks—

Oh, darn. This was _bad_. Three times made an actual _pattern_. She might have a problem. At least nobody had appeared to notice her affectionate poolside attack; if they had, then they'd failed to mention anything to her about it.

"And not only that, but for a while afterwards, you were actually pretty nice to him. You know?" Larke prompts, her voice going a bit quieter and warmer, a tiny smile crossing her lips as she starts to elaborate.

Bianca tries to look unaffected and only vaguely interested as she finishes up her mascara and replaces the wand.

"Right after he was defrosted, you took him to a quiet corner so he could sit down, wrapped him in a blanket and ordered him a hot chocolate. And I noticed that you let a different chauffeur drive you instead, for a couple of days."

"Well," Bianca mumbles, as she realizes that Larke has stopped talking and is waiting for a response, "he couldn't drive, h-he needed rest. I mean, I couldn't very well have him crash us into the first convenient building while he was recovering, could I?"

"No, I suppose not, but I also kinda noticed that you…you didn't yell at him and order him around as much. And I think maybe things like that was why everybody started gossiping. When things went back to normal, maybe they took extra notice of how cruelly you treated him. Precisely because there was suddenly such a contrast from before." Larke tilts her head at Bianca. "A real difference between how you treated him those few days after the Cup and how you normally treat him. But that's just _my_ theory, of course."

Bianca stares at Larke, unable to come up with a snappy retort. Her gaze drops to the red of the Chanel lipstick she's fished out of her make-up bag, and she suppresses a shiver. It's the same lipstick she wore when she kissed Wilshire after the Cup.

Right. And the very next week, she was right back to treating him like a slave.

For just a couple of days or so, though, while he recovered from being frozen in a block of ice, she just felt sort of oddly…protective. What she felt towards him was almost something similar to what she usually only felt towards Empress; wanting to take care of him, as if he was something precious.

She remembered the sinking feeling she experienced when she yelled his name several times throughout the race, but nobody answered. It wasn't like him. He always came when she called. She remembered the shock of seeing him encased in a block of ice.

That must be why she chastised his parents. That must be why she absentmindedly planned to sabotage Tara with Ex-lax. That must be why she almost…_almost_ kissed him later that evening, right on the lips. To make sure he was still there, still safe, that nothing was going to take him away.

It's only some residual feelings of stress and perceived loss. She's just shaking off the last leftovers of worry, that's all.

That's all.

But how long will it take before the uncomfortable feelings of concern, the alien urge towards physical contact, go away?

It's been days. Weeks.

Why aren't they gone already?

And when she defended him to her parents…it wasn't the first time she yelled at somebody to protect him.

When he came to her in tears and told her that Pierce, Radley and Troy were only pretending to be his friends so they could get some fancy license plates out of him, she rushed right out to give them a piece of her mind. She actually steered a motorboat up onto the beach and into a giant pizza. All because of she wanted to stand up for him, and because nobody was allowed to be mean to him but her. She was obviously insane.

It seems she's still insane, though.

When will it end?

"Bianca…why do you like Troy?"

Completely lost in her own thoughts, Bianca jumps when Larke speaks to her. The only reason this doesn't result in a red streak of lipstick going up her cheek, is because she just finished and put the cap back on.

"Why? That's _obvious_!" Bianca snaps, annoyed that she allowed herself to drift off and get spooked. "He's handsome, rich, smart, sporty, talented, suave, elegant, popular— he's the cream of the crop!"

"I see," Larke says, with a hint of a disappointed sigh, sitting down on one of the comfy, polished hardwood benches. "And do you love him?"

"Uh…" Bianca grimaces. Love is such a heavy word. Mature. While she's claimed to be 'in love with' several boys over the course of the last two or three years, she's never _really_ used the word in anything resembling this manner, with perhaps the exception of about her Empress. Not with the deeper meaning that Larke's suddenly gentle voice is putting behind it. And she's never heard any of the other teens use it like this.

Except, of course, for Wilshire.

Her mind flashes on Wilshire, so earnestly reassuring her that he would reject Tara for her if things came to that, and she doesn't want to think about that right now. Doesn't want to consider, no matter how cheesy he might sound sometimes, how apparently easy it is for him to express these emotions.

He's so honest and genuine and sappy. This lack of a hard outer layer is probably part of why Tara's drawn to him. Soft-shell crabs recognize their own. Bianca has to wonder how he'll survive in the cynical world of Beverly Hills as an adult. Of course, money always helps, but with his naivety, he might get scammed out of his entire fortune…unless, perhaps, he had somebody to _guide_ him…

For a moment, she stops short to frown at her reflection. Why did she still put on that lipstick, considering where it's been? What it represents? Why not pick the plum Gucci instead? It would still have gone with her outfit.

«I do. I love Troy," Larke confesses, her tone part serious and part dreamy as she holds one leg out so her temporary robot assistant can pull off her riding boot. "And I know him. You know, he's not as so-called _perfect_ as people think? He can be overconfident and insensitive, and if somebody else tries to take charge, he can get pretty snippy about it. He can sometimes take it as a personal offence, because he assumes he'll automatically be the one in control of a situation." Larke sighs, holding out her other leg for the robot.

"How so?" Bianca raises her eyebrows in bemusement. It's not often that any teen from Beverly Hills will get to hear any _real_ critique of Troy Jeffries.

Larke gives a discomfited shrug. "Actually, I happened to meet him on my way here, and it definitely sounds like a lot's been going on while I was out riding. While he'd never complain openly, it seems he's not too thrilled about the fact that Wilshire not only beat him in some weight lifting contest without even meaning to, but actually saved Tara's life when Troy's back was turned." Larke glances at Bianca. "Did you hear about this?"

Bianca nods reluctantly. "Yes…I saw it, actually."

"Anyway…I think it's safe to say he has kind of a hero complex." Then Larke's wistful frown turns into a smile. "But I love him. He still doesn't seem to want to make up his mind whether he wants us to go steady yet or not, but I get it. It's probably for the best. Since we're barely seventeen, and since...well, since he's so popular with the girls—"

"And you're so popular with the boys, right?" Bianca interjects acidly.

Larke shrugs, looking somewhat bothered, and goes on. "He's afraid some girls would hate me if I actually started dating him."

Bianca scoffs. "Some girls could hate you just _fine_ even _without_ Troy in the picture."

"Once, he suggested waiting until we're done with high school," Larke continues, in the same sweet tones. It seems she's opted to ignore Bianca's little jab at her. "And anyway, he's growing up. He'll mature eventually. He's already more mature than he was when I met him, and definitely more mature than a lot of other boys his age. Most of the time he's sweet, polite, patient, humble, friendly and thoughtful. And he's brave and occupied with justice, fairness and with conserving the environment.»

Bianca stares at Larke. It has never quite occurred to her before that Larke isn't just a competitor for Troy's affections— no, she's right, she actually _knows_ Troy. If she can describe him like that, in a way that reveals that they've spent a lot of time together and had a few rather serious conversations, then…it's on a whole other level.

Bianca doesn't really know anything about Troy, about his hopes and dreams. She knows he loves cars and boats and sports, but that's basically it. She can't even remember what his favourite sport is.

Wilshire's favourite sport is golf (although he's terrible at it), he loves tinkering with cars, he doesn't have pets (unless you count the high tech robotic toy dinosaur keeping him company at night) and some of his favourite foods are raspberry chocolate bonbons, pizza, strawberries and low calorie, guilt-free baked goods.

As for his hopes and dreams, they are to marry Bianca Dupree, build a luxurious castle for them, and eventually have one or two kids.

His birthday is January 28th. She knows this because his devotion, willingness and physical strength aren't the only reasons she chose him for her slave; out of all the teens, he's the oldest by a couple months, and was the first one to receive his driver's license.

Even if she didn't mean to, she's picked up plenty of trivia about Wilshire Brentwood during the course of the last few years.

It's not lost on her that she's utterly failed to do the same for Troy Jeffries. Or the fact that hearing Larke talk about Troy's plans to date her after high school didn't bother her half as much as it maybe should have.

And it cannot be denied that lately, she hasn't even been watching Troy much. She wonders how long it has been going on, even if she doesn't particularly want to know the answer.

These are not comfortable thoughts. They're new and scary.

Bianca rubs her forehead for a moment. She doesn't want to think anymore. Not now. Not about this. Maybe not ever.

"Wilshire's a pretty good guy, isn't he?" asks suddenly Larke then, her expression almost comically innocent. "Loyal, helpful…and how could anybody watch him save a damsel in distress today and not be moved?"

"Larke Tanner, you have all the subtlety of a parade float on fire," Bianca remarks, her voice chilly and her surface cool, completely belying the fearfulness within. She knows she's barely keeping from shivering.

Wilshire likes to feel useful, he said. She wonders how often he actually does feel useful around her. Unfortunately, she rather thinks she has a much better grasp of how often he feels _useless_ around her.

"Well, I learned from the best," says Larke, displaying some uncharacteristic sharpness, below the usual sugar.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bianca asks suspiciously, an inconvenient tremble creeping into her voice.

"Only that some things are more obvious than others," Larke answers sweetly.

"Oh, _really_? So you think you've got it all figured out about me, hmm?" Bianca's eyes narrow, her eyebrows drawing together, and she actually goes as far as reaching out to poke Larke's shoulder with her finger in challenge. "_You_ try having him following you around like a lovesick puppy for almost _four years_, and _then_ we'll see how much is left of that _generous_ nature of yours! Remember how crazy he drove Pierce when he was _Pierce's_ slave for a few days instead of mine?"

Bianca feels a certain amount of wicked satisfaction, as she can tell she's caught Larke Tanner completely off guard.

That's the thing about Wilshire: They all think he's a pretty good guy, and they feel sorry for him and will stand up for him when he's mistreated,_ sure_…but they also don't want to admit how they'd prefer not to be saddled with him any longer than they absolutely have to.

Now, Larke is frowning, her body language involuntarily showcasing her discomfort. Then, however, she shakes her head. "Here's how we differ, though…I would never _let_ Wilshire follow me around for even a _fraction_ of as long as _you_ have. I wouldn't end up in that situation, you see, because we would never have established that sort of relationship in the first place. I wouldn't have any _reason_ to."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" Bianca echoes, increasingly indignant as she discovers she's losing her previous edge. "And just what exactly do you think you're even _doing_ right now? A touch of desperate matchmaking, so I'll stay away from Troy?"

Standing up from the bench, Larke looks almost exasperated. "It's nothing like that, I swear. I wouldn't even have mentioned it if I didn't think you had a reason— if I didn't get the impression that you also have feelings for—"

"Enough!"

The _nerve_ of that blonde bimbo, nearly speaking the _unspeakable_— and frankly, the _unthinkable_— out loud...!

At once, Larke raises her hands in a placating manner. "Okay, okay, I'll stop— to be honest, I don't know why I'm even trying. Maybe the others are right."

Bianca cocks an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Larke shrugs. "You said it yourself. They don't think you're good for Wilshire, the way you mistreat him. They think he deserves better."

Bianca was just about ready to kick Larke Tanner right on her skinny, bronzed ankle. But now, she's lost all of her momentum. Larke's words have knocked the wind out of her. Her mouth has gone dry.

Wilshire's voice suddenly echoes in her head, asking _do __**you**__ think I should like you?_

She didn't answer him. She barely even understood what he meant. Now, she's beginning to. She hadn't let him finish explaining what the others thought of them, either. After hearing only a little, she hadn't wanted to know the details.

It's dawning on Bianca now that being preoccupied might not have been the only reason why she didn't observe Troy's weightlifting more closely today, or why she's barely looked at him at all. Troy is one of the people who have been talking about her, trying to help Wilshire. It wasn't just about Bianca's own, newfound disinterest in Troy: Perhaps she knew, deep down, that Troy might not appreciate any attention from her.

It makes Bianca flinch, the way Larke's eyes widen in shock at Bianca's speechlessness. Larke must be so used to Bianca always having a sharp retort, and now she doesn't. Larke has hit her where it hurts, but it seems Larke might not even have fully expected it to work.

"Or maybe you're the one who's right?" Larke suggests, rallying. "Maybe he's not good enough for you? I mean, you _do_ have a point. Most of us wouldn't be able to put up with him for long. He's oblivious, clingy, a walking bad luck charm, not exactly the hottest boy in town, and _especially _not the sharpest tool in the shed—"

Bianca sneers. "_You_ don't get to talk about him like that— _nobody_ gets to talk about him like that!"

Larke's face suddenly splits into a wide grin, as if she's won some sort of prize. "And that should really _tell_ you something, hmm?"

Bianca's face is set ablaze, deep red and hot with humiliation. It's not like this is a conclusion she hasn't (reluctantly) come to by herself already, but to hear it spoken out loud, especially by Larke Tanner, is too much. And not only that: It was an obvious trap, yet she managed to walk straight into it. She should've_ known_ little goody two-shoes Larke Tanner could never speak that badly of someone and actually _mean_ it.

This time, she _does_ kick Larke on the ankle. Larke has started giggling by now, and it enrages Bianca further when Larke only pauses for a second or two to wince and clutch at her injury, before she continues on laughing like an idiot, bent double and lopsided as she rubs her ankle.

"Larke Tanner, you really shouldn't have to picked today to finally grow a personality!" Bianca growls, before shoving the other girl against her changing room locker. Larke's laughter is cut short by a yelp of complaint and pain. Strangely, hearing this noise isn't as satisfying to Bianca as it should have been.

She's always been antagonistic, sure, but today she's been downright _violent_, towards both Larke _and _Tara. She barely feels like herself.

Bianca curses under her breath as she stalks off to go a few rounds with the tennis robot and blow off some steam. She doesn't care if this means she'll have to take yet another shower later, despite the fact that it will be murder on her skin and hair. She'll just have to make a new appoint with Fifi.

Bianca's halfway to the tennis court before it suddenly hits her that she has not only forgotten her tennis gear, but she has in fact left Empress behind at the pool, all alone.

_No, Bianca Dupree is definitely not herself these days_, she thinks, taking off at a horrified sprint to save her little darling; no matter how she despises running, especially out of sports attire.

She's going so fast she nearly slams straight into somebody walking in the opposite direction. She's just about to give them a screaming piece of her mind, when she discovers it's Wilshire. He's wearing an uncomfortable expression as he holds up Empress, who's barking furiously. His arms are stretched as far out in front of him as he can manage.

Nevertheless, he attempts a smile. It comes out looking vaguely painful. "Here, Bianca. I figured you probably didn't mean to leave her behind, so I just…thought I'd go see if I could find you and bring her to you. I didn't want you to worry."

Panting with the effort of running, Bianca doesn't attempt to speak. She doesn't even clear her throat. All she can do is nod and accept her beloved pet from him before turning around and more or less stumbling off.

Empress is clasped tight against Bianca's bosom, as if she's trying to calm her thumping heart. She feels strangely numb.

Bianca knows that, no matter how much she insists Empress likes him, the dog is downright hostile when it comes to Wilshire. Yet he carried her pet all the way here, at the high risk of being bitten. Just so she wouldn't fret. She supposes it might be weird how, even when it comes to something as important to her as Empress, she can't find it in her to show him gratitude. But she's just not used to it.

And she wasn't mentally prepared for seeing him again this soon.

She's not sure how far she walks before she finds a bench to rest on. The grounds surrounding the Teen Club are vast, after all. Her head feeling oddly empty, she sits and stares out across this vastness until she loses track of time. All thoughts of tennis or Fifi have evaporated from her mind. Lifting Empress slightly, Bianca closes her eyes and groans as she buries her face in her dog's curly fur.

Right now, she wishes she could still be angry at Larke. It was a much simpler emotion. It's _always_ been a much simpler emotion.

Empress whimpers, worried about her Master's uncharacteristic behavior.

It's not until Empress starts barking for attention that Bianca finally decides to just go home. Her parents aren't there to ask her any questions she can't answer, anyway.

* * *

One Saturday afternoon, Wilshire goes to her when she's sitting alone at a poolside table. He's made sure there aren't that many people around; especially not Switchboard. The resident gossip girl has spent considerable time spreading the news of Tara's rescue across Beverly Hills. Switchboard's nose for news is still sniffing around him, and he needs this particular thing to stay private.

He knows he could've done this days ago, but a good opportunity never seemed to present itself. He didn't want to do it in a crowded lunch hall or while rushing to get to another class. Moreover, he certainly didn't want to do it on the road, just in case he ended up getting so upset (or, much less likely, even so happy) that he started crying and accidentally crashed the limo.

Once he figured out the best place, he took the time to go shopping. The correct attire for the pool is swimwear, but he knew that being half-naked in front of her would only add to the feeling of vulnerability. Besides, if he shows up in something she's seen him in a million times before, _that_ will only add to the chances of her not considering him any differently.

He's not a fashion expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he's fairly content with the new, tailored polo shirt and shorts he's bought. He even splurged for new shoes.

The fact that he's chosen to approach her on a day he was certain Empress would be absent, is hardly a coincidence, either.

It was, however, not only a question of when or where, but also _how_.

He's been wondering how to breach the subject for days. In the end, he decided to simply be straight forward about it.

He knows he lacks the brains and she lacks the patience for anything more complicated.

That still doesn't mean this is going to be easy.

He's gotten his overeating under control for the time being, but it's mostly because he's been so distracted by the public attention and by planning how, when and where to approach Bianca. He definitely hasn't stopped overeating because he's no longer nervous.

When he reaches her, his stomach seems to be flopping around inside him, his heart clenching. His palms are already sweaty.

While everybody else have been praising him for his so-called heroism these last few days, Bianca has remained silent on the subject. Not so much as a pat on the back from her. The much needed boost of confidence Wilshire got from all the attention, quickly withered and died when faced with Bianca's indifference. Sometimes he wonders what it would take for him to impress her— no, scratch that, he _always_ wonders what it would take for him to impress her.

What usually impresses her is Troy Jeffries, so you'd think that if he exhibited some Troy-like behavior, that would turn her head, but…no deal. He might never be good enough. Somehow, though, he can't seem to keep himself from trying.

Today, she's wearing a new, dark green bathing suit that compliments her flawless skin and hair perfectly. When he timidly clears his throat, she tilts her face up. This is the only sign he has that she's even looking at him; her ice green eyes are hidden behind some large sunglasses, a larger sunhat obscuring further parts of her gorgeous face. She's a closed fortress. Reading her expressions is going to be a much harder task than usual.

«Bianca? If I could just have a minute of your time to— uh, you see, you've been acting sort of _different_ lately, and I finally just have to ask..." He notices that he's actually twiddling his thumbs, then, and has to force himself to pull his hands back to his sides. "Um, you know that evening, in your kitchen? A couple of weeks ago…?"

"You mean the evening when you basically ate a whole pheasant by yourself? How could I forget?" Her voice is bored, but there's also a certain edge of aloofness to it. An edge is good, he supposes. An edge sounds more like the normal Bianca.

He bites his lip. All he can see is his own, too-round face, reflected in her mirrored sunglasses. "I think of it more like the evening when my hero defended me to my parents, actually," he manages to say.

Something about her stiff posture and the tight line of her mouth softens somewhat, then, so he decides the waters are safe-ish enough to take the plunge.

Careful not to topple the chair (these folding chairs have so often been the bane of his existence) or jostle the few items on the table in front of her, he sits down. "Bianca? What I really wanted to ask was…right before I left your house that evening…d-did you by any chance want to kiss me?»

What he really wants to ask is _do you care about me?_, or maybe _do you like me at all?_, but he doesn't think he could handle a negative answer, so kissing it is.

She merely turns her head to look out across the pool.

Wilshire tries to ignore the way his stomach twists, tries to make his voice and body language appear steadier than he feels. "_Please_, Bianca," he asks quietly.

Her silence goes on way past his pain limit. Still, he waits and doesn't prod her further with questions, because it won't do any good. Besides, at least she hasn't left.

When she finally answers, the edge is still there, but she sounds increasingly distant; almost as if she's not addressing him at all, but merely talking to herself. "I doubt 'want' is the correct term. I'd _rather_ call it _temporary insanity_. Maybe I forgot who I was. Or more likely, who _you_ were."

"Oh." His face falls. His shoulders feel leaden, his eyes starting to sting. He bites the inside of his cheek, attempting to fight the inevitable. "O-oh. I see…"

It's only when she hears a sniff and a strange, half-strangled noise that she finally turns her head to look at him. To her shock, he's actually crying. She's seen him cry plenty of times before, of course, but nothing like this.

This is not the usual melodramatic blubbering of thwarted puppy love. No, he's trying to choke the tears down, gripping the table with his right hand, trying to stop himself from shaking with the sobs, trying to hide his face by burying it in the crook of his left elbow. He's ashamed and vulnerable and crushed.

She wishes she could just call him a crybaby and be done with it, but unfortunately, it's not as if his reaction is unwarranted. No, this comes only after several attempts at talking seriously with her, and being cruelly rejected each time— this last rejection perhaps the cruelest of all.

He's wearing brand new clothes, she finally notices. The dweeb has actually bought a brand new outfit just to speak to her. And _oh, no,_ he's honestly gotten himself a new pair of Italian high-top sneakers, gleaming bright white and box fresh in the sunlight. The effect is ruined by the fact that he has, true to form, neglected to lace them up. He always tries too hard, failing equally hard.

If she were any other person than Bianca Dupree, she might find it adorable. As she is now, Bianca Dupree thinks it's _pitiful_, but also kind of— it's kind of— who _else_ would—?

The impulse to hurry over to his side of the table and put her arm around him is foreign, yet overwhelming. Because even if experience tells her it can't be true, he _does_ almost look like he might be broken-hearted enough to give up on her. He might get up and leave.

But she can't do it. She can't. She feels unmoving, bolted to her seat, as rigid as a statue. She cannot believe she's made him feel this way. It's painful to watch him, struggling hard to stop crying.

In the past, she's usually kept him and his daydreaming, naïve enthusiasm at a solid arm's length. Most of it was very necessary, not something to regret, and he always bounces back so easily, anyway— but even she knows that, on a handful of occasions, she might have gone too far in pushing him away.

This is one of those times.

Still, she cannot seem to drop her icy exterior. The thing is, the _scary_ thing is, that she's feeling just as vulnerable as him. She's just better at hiding it.

It has, however, become immensely clear to her that she needs to do something. Has to give him, if not too much, then at least _something_.

Bianca groans. "Look, if it makes you stop _whining_, there's _one_ thing I _can_ tell you."

"Wh-what?" Wilshire sniffs and hastily wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "What's that?"

Bianca closes her eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath before she speaks. Suddenly, considering what she's about to say, she can't quite shake the humiliating notion that she might owe Larke an apology. "What I _do_ know, what I've recently come to understand…is that I don't love Troy Jeffries. And I'm not…I won't be chasing after him anymore. There's still glory in catching him, of course, but it might not…be worth it."

By now, Wilshire's mouth has dropped open.

Tossing her hair haughtily, she rushes to break the sudden, awkward silence and pry some frivolity into the gravity of her words. "What on_ Earth_ would I even do with him once I caught him? It's occurred to me that I'd most likely get sick of him after _ten minutes_ or something, anyway, considering that he's _Larke's_ type! I mean, I _know_ I have better taste than _her_, right? Not to mention all the _other_ girls in Beverly Hills who fawn over him! What am I, a sheep? No! I'm a cutting edge fashionista, I'm _avant garde_— so I should _think_ I can be a_ bit_ more individualistic and unique than that! Wouldn't you say so, Wilshire?"

Usually, Wilshire Brentwood would be the first in line to mindlessly agree with anything Bianca Dupree asks or says. Not now, though. For a long while, he only sits there, gaping at her, as if in incomprehension.

She hopes it's not because he has seen the flaw in her logic: The false assumption that her dating or not dating Troy Jeffries would be entirely up to her choice, instead of Troy's.

Bianca finally takes off her sunglasses, for no other reason than so she can glare at him. "Wilshire! I'm _talking_! Didn't you_ hear_ me? Aren't you going to _say_ something?"

The smile that blooms on his face then is tearful and red-cheeked, but utterly joyful. It makes her throat feel tight. "Oh, Bianca! You don't know how— _oh_, that makes me so _happy_!"

"Good," she croaks, abruptly hoarse. "Now will you _stop _trying to play twenty questions with me?"

When he gathers her hands in his on the tabletop, she lets him. She tells herself it's just because that for once, she can't be bothered to stop him.

"For now, that's all I needed to hear," he agrees cheerfully, nodding. "I'm just so _thrilled_ that you won't waste any more time on Troy, and that you won't keep forcing me to help you win another man!"

She subjects him to a sharp look. "What do you mean, _for_ _now_?"

"I can wait for you to make up your mind about the rest. About me."

"Then you might have to wait a _very_ long time!"

"I'm still so young! I don't mind!" Wilshire lifts her left hand to his mouth for a brief kiss, and she finds herself, quite abnormally, without any strong urge to resist. Then he looks her straight in the eyes, his own radiating sincerity. "And Bianca? I just want to tell you that even though I know you might not choose me in the end, waiting will totally be worth it. Just for a chance."

There's a certain dampness left on her hand after his lips departed. When she realizes it's partly due to the remnants of tears on his face, she doesn't quite know what to say. The noise of exasperated disgust, which she wanted to utter at his continued persistence, never makes it out of her throat.

Wilshire has never dared to kiss her before, not even on the hand. Yet in the last few days, he's managed to do it _twice_. She wonders what it means that he has the courage now. Does it mean he's spotted the tiny hairline cracks in her cold attitude towards him?

Bianca settles for sending him an unamused glance instead, but if his relieved smile is any indication, it does nothing to dampen his good mood.

He just wants a chance, he says. Despite all the hopeful fantasies he's confessed to her in the past, some going as inappropriately far as including matrimony or procreation, he _does_ know he doesn't have the right to expect or assume anything at all. Not even a date. He's letting her know that he respects the choice being hers completely, no matter how much he gets carried away sometimes.

Even though it should not need to be said, even though it should absolutely be taken for granted, she likes that he still felt it necessary to say it out loud, to reassure her.

It seems it might be time to stop _outright dismissing_ Wilshire Brentwood as a serious contender.

She'll have to actually think about it.

A little. Perhaps.

As long as she doesn't say anything _out loud_, where's the harm in a few thought experiments?

There's no way she'll give Larke or even Tara the satisfaction of an apology, though.

Probably.

* * *

In December, when Troy and Larke are going out caroling with friends, she opts to go to Buck's Christmas party with Wilshire (and a few others) instead.

She tries not to examine this choice too closely. It might just be a coincidence, or it might be that she's keeping a promise. About Troy. About things.

And she may or may not have double checked that Tara wasn't attending.

At least she makes Wilshire push the sleigh up the final hill to the party. That should definitely put some brakes on his romantic enthusiasm. True to his word, what she told him about Troy _is_ 'enough for now', and he hasn't tried to woo her much after their conversation, but…still. It doesn't hurt to take precautions.

When they're all telling _A Christmas Carol_ around the fire, though, she realizes far too late that she's not only taken a seat right next to Wilshire, but that she's inadvertently put herself in the role as Mrs. Cratchit, to his Bob Cratchit.

She tries to ignore this frankly saccharine development, hoping everyone else does as well. So far, nobody's made a single comment. They're probably too preoccupied with trying to salvage Christmas.

Lately, the thoughts and actions she's having to deny or ignore when it comes to Wilshire are piling up like rejected Christmas presents on the closet floor of her mind. One day, she supposes she'll have to do something about it.

Maybe next year, she thinks to herself, trying to ignore the fact that there's barely a week left of the _current_ year.


	4. Hands

**Dirt**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Author's notes:** The events at the beginning of this chapter pick up immediately after episode 65, which is part two of the _Beverly Hills Teens_ Christmas special, "Miracle at the Teen Club" (also the final episode of the show). The orphans and orphanage mentioned are from this episode.

* * *

The orphans are playing with their Christmas gifts while the adults and teenagers are singing carols around the Christmas tree. Watching all this, a sudden thought strikes Wilshire.

This all feels great. The mood is wonderful and the children look happy, but why should this only be the case during Christmas?

He has so much. So many things, so many resources, so much money. He could give so much more, and often. All year 'round. They all could, but he supposes he'll have to start with himself.

The first order of business, then, would be finding someone who might know how to put his funds to good use.

Clearing his throat, he approaches the orphanage manager.

She's astonished when she realizes what he's offering, but she rallies fast. She's an older, experienced woman, and doesn't waste an opportunity when she sees one. They're just starting to really get into some brainstorming, when they're interrupted.

"Wilshire…?"

Wilshire turns around. "Yes, Bianca?" he answers politely, hoping she's not going to tell him to drive her home right away. It's always so hard for him to say no to her, and he wants to be able to finish this conversation with the manager. It feels important.

The tone of her voice is hesitant, though; she doesn't sound like she's about to start ordering him around. "Um…can you come over here for a second? I have…uh, a present for you."

He gawks at her, not quite believing his ears. "You mean, like, a Christmas present? For me?"

She makes a reluctant noise in her throat, looking strangely embarrassed. "…something like that."

Excusing himself to the manager, he tells her he'll be right back. Wilshire practically floats after Bianca as she leads them behind the large Christmas tree, to a spot with fewer people. She's not acting like herself, and he knows he shouldn't get his hopes up, but he's dreamed about a scenario like this too many times. Although, it usually involved Valentine's Day instead of Christmas.

When they stop, and Bianca turns to talk to him, he notices that she's fidgeting. That doesn't seem like her, either. "I, uh…I suppose I never said thank you."

His eyebrows shoot up; no, this is definitely not the usual Bianca. Could even _she_ be affected by the sweet, heavy Christmas mood? "You want to _thank_ me? For what?"

"For when I accidentally left Empress at the pool and you came to bring her to me," she explains, shrugging, and glancing up to see his reaction. "You know, so I wouldn't worry?"

"Oh! Gosh, Bianca, that's okay, no problem." His tone is modest, but his face has lit up with joyful surprise. "It was nothing. How could I not? I know how much you love that dog."

"I would _also_ thank you not to refer to Empress as 'that dog'," she goes on, her voice going a touch frosty with offense. "It makes her sound like a common mutt. I'll have you know my Empress is a _purebred_ French poodle!"

His hands going up now, Wilshire begins backing away. "Of course— I'm sorry, Bianca, I didn't mean to imply—"

Suddenly, Bianca feels as if a heavy stone has dropped into her stomach. Even when she's trying to thank him, even when she's working so hard to be good for five seconds, she ends up scolding him. Her cheeks hot and her neck cold with unfamiliar shame, she rushes forward to grab him before he can cower further.

When her hand grips his upper arm, she can feel him wincing, as if he's expecting her to strike him. Her stomach seems to tighten around the stone, its jagged edges scraping against her insides.

Swallowing, she forces herself to be as gentle as possible as she embraces him. Not yanking. Not making any sudden movements. Not acting demanding as she slips her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder.

After a beat or two, his arms rise uncertainly to wrap around her waist. His breathing is shallow, and he's staring into the green, glittery shadows of the Christmas tree. When she says nothing, only shifts her arms to make herself more comfortable, he hugs her closer, tighter. Dares to exhale properly. Wishes he was allowed to bury his nose in her hair and inhale. Doesn't dare try.

She lets him hold her for an entirety of thirty-five seconds (he counts them). Then she untangles herself from the hug, smoothing down her jacket and her hair.

When she looks up again, Wilshire's staring at her, awe-struck. "B-Bianca?"

Bianca clears her throat softly. "Merry Christmas, Wilshire."

"Yeah…merry Christmas," he murmurs, the confusion on his face easing into a tentative smile.

"Don't read too much into it," Bianca adds, then, patting down her hair again. "It's all these poor singing orphans, they put me in a sappy holiday mood." She makes a flapping, dismissive hand gesture towards the caroling crowd. "Okay, Wilshire?"

He doesn't answer.

She blinks up at him, only to be met with a frown.

The frown starts out uncertain, but turns into what can only be labelled disapproving. Somehow, she's let him down. It's not an attitude she's completely unfamiliar with getting from him, but it's usually more about having shocked him. Now he simply seems disappointed.

He draws a breath. "Bianca, that's…even for you, that's insensitive."

Her eyes narrow. "What, I'm being insensitive just because I'm asking you not to—?"

"No, I meant about the orphans," he interrupts her quietly. "They're real, tiny people with real feelings. Not just set decorations in some tacky Christmas movie."

She blinks, momentarily surprised. "Wilshire—"

"Never mind. Um…could you excuse me for a second, please? I was talking to the manager of the orphanage. Is that okay?"

Bianca wants to yell at him for interrupting her, for ignoring her to talk to somebody else, but for once, she can't. He's actually being as polite as ever. Asking for permission. The only thing that's different is that at least in this moment, his world doesn't revolve entirely around her. "Oh. Sure…"

Wilshire gives her a tight little smile before leaving her behind the Christmas tree.

Bianca finds herself with a sudden need to compose herself, and remains behind the tree for a moment before stepping back out into the crowd.

The first thing she sees is Tara and Larke, standing with Blaze as they sing their carols.

Bianca groans. There's another thing. It's Christmas, yet she hasn't managed to talk herself into apologizing to Tara and Blaze for the way she treated them. On that wretched Saturday afternoon when she apparently lost her mind.

It's hard to apologize to those girls, though, even on Christmas. One reason is that it's just not in her character, so it'll cause an embarrassing fuss.

The worst reason, though, is that apologizing to them about these specific events would (indirectly) include admitting that she has any feelings at all for a certain oaf.

So once again, she finds herself postponing the apologies. There will be no Christmas miracle for Tara and Larke.

Without much enthusiasm, Bianca starts singing the carols with everyone else again. Trying to pretend everything's normal.

* * *

The following week, she finds him out on the Teen Club golf course. He's playing a solitary, fumbling round of what passes for golf in his perception.

When he looks up and sees her approaching, she can tell that he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

Bianca can't blame him, she supposes. Even though he looks foolish, standing with his mouth open like that, and even though his ball is rolling into the pond, forgotten.

She doesn't usually seek him out during the holidays like this. She usually calls him up and has him come to her house to pick her up, if she wants anything.

"What are you doing out here, all by yourself?" she asks when she reaches him, her voice softer than she planned for it to be.

Wilshire clears his throat. "Uhm…I just like to come here sometimes when it's kinda empty. It's a good thinking spot."

She instantly gets the urge to say that she can't imagine he ever gets much thinking done, regardless of his location, but she holds back. It feels like an empty knee-jerk reaction, rather than a sardonic witticism. And not only that, but after everything that's happened lately, it doesn't even feel true. It seems Wilshire Brentwood can get quite a bit of thinking done, actually; at least when he really needs to.

So instead, she decides to get straight to the point. "Wilshire…are you going to the Teen Club New Year's Eve party?"

Sighing, he shoots her an apologetic glance before he starts lining up his shot. "No, I'm afraid I can't."

She draws in a sharp breath. "If it's about the orphans comment—"

"No, I mean I really _can't_ go. I can't afford the ticket. I'm broke. I spent my entire monthly allowance, and I won't get any more money until January."

"You _what_?" Her eyes flash, her voice rising in volume and sharpness. "What did you do, spend it all on crazy Christmas presents for every last great aunt and nephew twice removed? Buy yourself a truckload of chocolate truffle marzipan pigs? _What_?"

Cringing at her tone, he straightens up, knowing he's done with golf for today. "No, I donated it all to local charities and orphanages," he explains, as he puts away his golf club, turning to her to give her his full attention. "All fifty grand. And the two and a half million I had left from the savings in my piggy bank."

Bianca is staring at him now, shaking her head. "Wilshire, I know it's the season and all, but there's no reason to get completely carried away!"

Shrugging, he smiles helplessly at her. "I just felt like giving. Oh, Bianca, you should have seen the looks on their faces! It was such a good feeling. I love helping people, but nobody seems to want my help. I screw things up too often. But not even_ I_ can ruin a simple cash donation. I don't mind spending New Year's Eve alone. The thought of what I did for those people, how I helped them improve their lives…it was _so_ worth it!"

"But I do!"

"What?"

"I _do_ mind spending New Year's Eve alone!" she elaborates, her hands moving up to rest sternly on her hips. "Mommy and Daddy are going to New York for Aunt Hortense's annual New Year's party, and— and if I _do _go to the Teen Club, who's going to take me? Who's going to _dance_ with me?"

For a moment, he looks as if he's not sure he's heard her correctly. Then his eyes go wide. "Dance? You…you mean you wanted to go _together_? Like, _really_ together?"

As he takes an eager step forward, she takes two steps back, her arms falling back down from her hips. Her eyes are as big as his now, but not for the same reason. "W-well, everyone else seems to have a date, and I didn't want to be the only one showing up alone! It'd be _so_ embarrassing!"

His hopeful expression fades. "Oh…you're only asking me because everyone else is taken?"

Bianca groans. "No, I just…thought it might not be…_entirely_ terrible. Going with you."

Wilshire gasps. "Bianca…are you saying you really do want to celebrate the new year with me?" Reaching out, he takes her hands in his. "To venture into the future together?"

Taking another step back, she pulls her hand out of his. There he goes again. She can't handle it anymore, if she ever could. "See, this is why I can't talk to you sometimes! You don't listen, you only want to interpret everything I say through some sort of gossamer romance filter!"

"I thought girls liked romance?" he tries, backing it up with an awkward smile.

When he takes a small step towards her, as if he might take reach for her hand again, she plants her hand in the middle of his chest. Her arm is fully outstretched, stopping him. She can't just keep retreating, not when he's like this. "We do— I mean, I do— but there's a time and a place and, above all, a _limit_! Listen to what you're even saying! Don't over-interpret everything I say! I just said it might be okay to go together to that _one_ party— and that's _all_ I said and _all_ I meant!"

Finally, he backs off, a shot of shame going through him. It seems he's overdoing it again. She's finally said yes to something, _anything at all, _when it comes to him, yet he was about to destroy it by being clingy and overeager. By daydreaming. Repelling her, and rightfully so. He's come to realize, from observing the other teens over the years, that she's not the only one who doesn't appreciate that kind of behavior. So it's not that he doesn't know. It's just that he can't always seem to control himself around her.

"You're right, Bianca— I'm sorry for reading too much into things, I really am— and come to think of it, I'm sorry I spent all my money, I'm sorry I didn't think to at least save some money for the ticket, but I got carried away—"

"You mean like you_ always_ do?"

"—but the ticket was 4000 dollars, and yesterday I met this little girl with kidney failure, who desperately needed a 200 000 dollar kidney transplant, so I had to scrape together all the money I had left. I couldn't spare a dollar. I'm sorry, Bianca."

She hesitates. "A little girl? Um…how old was she?"

"Five. She said she's starting school next year."

"Oh." Bianca frowns. She's an only child and the youngest in her family, and she's never babysat anyone, so she doesn't have much of a frame of reference. Several of those children she met at Christmas Eve, though, surely weren't older than five. And somebody that tiny simply…_ceasing to be_…well, this isn't exactly the happiest thought that has ever crossed her mind.

When _Bianca Dupree_ was five, an _army_ of doctors and nurses would have sprinted to her side if she as much as _coughed_.

"Bianca?"

"Uh…yes?"

"If you want, I could try asking my parents for a small advance from my next allowance, so we can attend the party after all," he offers, wringing his hands a little. "I doubt they'll say yes, though, because they're pretty strict about it." When she doesn't reply, he glances at her, pauses to swallow, and then barrels on. "Or maybe— I mean, if it's not too forward, you could come celebrate New Year's Eve at my house? The neighbors usually have these _awesome_ fireworks—"

Bianca gapes at him. "And_ miss_ the most important social event of the _year_? Are you _crazy_? I already bought the ticket!"

Ducking his head, Wilshire cringes. "It was just a suggestion…"

Bianca sighs. "Okay…how about this suggestion? I can pay for your ticket. Then we can both go."

He seems to jolt a little at that. "Y-you _can_?"

"Well, it'd only be a_ loan_, you know— I expect to get the money back in January!" she hastens to explain. The incredulity on his face and his searching eyes are flustering her.

She should've_ known_ he'd react like that. Doesn't he know that things would be so much easier if he'd just— can't he just _fake it_ and play it cool, like a normal teenage boy? So often, having this much influence over his emotions has made her feel so powerful, but these days, it's just uncomfortable.

His entire face lights up. "Yes, Bianca, I understand— oh, Bianca, you're _much_ too good to me!"

There's a stab of guilt in her heart so sharp it nearly makes her visibly wince. He always says that, no matter how tiny a crumb she throws his way. "D-did I say loan? I meant…gift! Yes. Think of it as a gift. It_ is_ the holidays, after all."

Now he looks completely overwhelmed. "Oh, _Bianca_! It'll be _amazing_! We'll dance, we'll eat, we'll drink, we'll watch the ball drop, and then, at Midnight—"

"I'm not kissing you at Midnight, Wilshire," she rushes to cut him off.

He pauses. "Oh. I was just going to say we'll watch Chester's annual fireworks display, but…" He bites his lip. "Thanks for letting me know in advance."

"Wilshire…" Bianca closes her eyes, repressing the urge to groan. He said he didn't expect anything. There was no need to shut him down. But considering how he got carried away and misinterpreted her invite earlier, no matter how quickly he reeled it back in, she supposes she can't really blame herself for feeling wary.

"What do you think Chester's fireworks will look like this year?" he goes on, sounding almost casual. Almost. "I bet they'll have themes from all the different countries that competed in the Silver Spoon races. What do you think?"

"Stop it, Wilshire. I've asked you to a party. I'm even paying for the ticket. What more do you want from me?"

He pauses, bewildered. "What do you mean, Bianca?"

"I _detest_ it when you look and sound so mopey and sad."

"I'm sorry, Bianca, I wasn't aware I was doing it. I'll stop right away. Just…what exactly am I doing?"

She gestures uncertainly at his face and upper body. "You go sort of pale, and your voice is all _tiny_, and it's like the light dies in your eyes, and your posture gets even more terrible than usual…!"

Wilshire immediately straightens his back. "I'm really sorry, Bianca, I don't know why I'm— like I told you, I don't expect anything, I never expect anything, I just— _please_, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful, because— because I couldn't be _happier_, I'm looking _so_ much forward to this party, and I— I couldn't be happier! Honestly!"

Bianca only sighs harder. "Yes, you could, you liar!"

"I could? H-how?"

For a couple of seconds, she grits her teeth, regretting the words. Regretting the display of guilt. Somewhat relieved that he doesn't seem to be picking up on it. "Never mind," she mutters, opening her purse and removing a few bills. "Here's the money. Now go get yourself a ticket before they run out, hmm? I _promise_ you I _won't_ be pleased if you can't get in."

Wilshire shuffles through the bills with a practiced hand. "This is ten thousand dollars," he says, looking up at her in confusion.

She's patting her hair now, and doesn't even glance at him. "Is it?"

"The ticket only costs four."

"Does it?"

"Yes, so what am I supposed to do with the other six thou—?"

He cuts himself off. She's already walking away, as if she didn't even hear him speak.

It's not until she's left that he realizes that, when he interrupted her earlier, she might have been trying to apologize for her insensitive comment about orphans. In her own way.

* * *

Practically everybody's wearing the silly party hats that Blaze and Tara have been handing out for the New Year's Eve party. Everybody except Bianca, who subjected the hats to an overbearing look until Blaze and Tara gave up and left.

And everybody except Wilshire.

Wilshire enjoys hats, and he's worn them many times. For driving, for boating, for golfing, for skiing and for costume parties. No matter his usual love for hats, though, this time he resists the temptation. He knows he has to look as non-silly as he can manage. Knows he has to make a good impression.

His tuxedo might be last year's model, but it's dry cleaned and (luckily) still fits him like a glove. He's made a point of avoiding the messier foodstuffs tonight to ensure it_ stays_ spotless, too.

He's even remembered to tie his shoes properly, for once.

So, no. There will be no stupid hats.

There will only be a straight, decisive path to where Bianca is standing, chatting to Shanelle, who looks vaguely cornered.

"Bianca?"

"What?" When Bianca turns, Shanelle only hesitates half a second before taking the opportunity to slip away.

He holds out his hand to Bianca. "May I have this dance?"

For a moment, she studies him as if his hair, face, tuxedo, hands and shoes are items on a inventory list. He swears he can feel a thin layer of cold sweat starting to form on his lower back.

Then she offers her hand, the wrist curved in a dainty arch. "You _may_," she says, giving regal permission.

Taking her hand in his, he leads her out on the dance floor, winding them through the crowd with surprising smoothness, until they find a vacant spot. Maybe he's not particularly assertive, Bianca thinks, but he does have the advantage of physical breadth and height. Then again, it occurs to her that at least sometimes, he can be plenty assertive if it's on her behalf.

There's a moment of awkwardness as they fumble a little, trying to figure out where to place their hands. Then they're off. Dancing. The song is romantic, but also a little peppy; it's not quite a slow dance, but not far from it.

"You know, you're actually not terrible at this," she says, somewhat grudgingly.

"Mom made me take lessons when I was younger," he tells her, shrugging one shoulder with a touch of modesty.

"I didn't know that."

"Well…we've never actually danced before. You and me."

"Surely we must've danced at least _once_?" She finds herself earnestly surprised at this. Nobody's reacting to seeing them dancing now, so it can't be completely unheard of, right? Or is it just the fact that they're so used to seeing Wilshire arriving at functions with her that they're just not giving it a second thought?

"I'm afraid not. Believe me, I would've remembered." He sighs, a dreamy look crossing his face for a moment, before being replaced by a more regretful one. "You always say no. One time, you said that if I was even half as hopeless at dancing as I was at everything else, I'd be a hazard to your new Manolo Blahniks."

Other than a small frown line appearing on her brow, she appears unruffled by this anecdote. "Ah. Well. That does sound like me."

"Another time, you said you'd rather be a wallflower than dance with me."

Bianca tilts her chin up in challenge. "And yet you keep asking."

"I haven't asked in a long, long time, actually," he reminds her, a somewhat sad note entering his voice.

"That's true. So even you can take a hint once in a while?"

"I'm not sure if it was a hint, as much as a big, red stop sign."

She raises her eyebrow at what she recognizes as one of his more cynical comments. They're incredibly rare, but that doesn't mean they're non-existent. "Can you blame me? Subtlety is usually lost on you."

He gives a sheepish grin, conceding to her point. "This time, though, I asked because I thought…um, when you invited me, you said you wanted to dance, so…"

"So?"

"So I figured it might be okay for me to ask you again."

Bianca merely shrugs, and they keep dancing.

When the song ends, he's certain she'll pry her hand out of his and make a cool, collected retreat from the dance floor. Possibly she'll go freshen up. Possibly order him to get her some punch.

She doesn't.

When a slower number comes on next, she steps closer and calmly rearranges their arms. When she leans her head on his shoulder, he has no idea how he manages to keep his feet moving. How he manages to keep his lungs working.

His mouth is dry, and his face feels numb. He knows he'll ruin everything by speaking, but somehow, he needs the words. Needs to convince himself that this is actually happening. That this is all real. He supposes he could ask her to pinch him, but that might be going too far. Besides, those perfectly manicured nails of hers are _sharp_.

Before he can even think of a subject, though, she speaks.

"What did you use the rest of the money for? You _obviously_ didn't spend it on a new tuxedo."

He almost stumbles in his dance steps, wondering if he's somehow misinterpreted. Somehow gone against her wishes. "D-did you want me to buy a new tuxedo with the rest of the cash?"

Bianca utters a careless little tut of a noise. "I'm sure it's none of my business what you do with your own money. Like I said, it was a gift."

Wilshire relaxes slightly. "In that case…I spent it doing some more charity work."

He's not sure, but as she lifts her head to glance at him, he thinks he can see the corner of her mouth turning up a little. "Hmm."

It seems she knew exactly where the money was going when she gave it to him. It occurs to him that this might have _been_ her way of apologizing for her insensitive comment about orphans. Without having to actually say it out loud. As apologies go, it's definitely worth a lot more to the orphans than a simple 'sorry' said in private to him. Cash will do a lot more good.

"I never asked, by the way..." she ventures, a note of genuine curiosity buried somewhere beneath the usual layers of _blasé_. "How did this spirit of generosity possess you to begin with, anyway? I mean, yes, it's the holidays, but…still. I've never seen you like this before."

"Well…part of it was that visit to the orphanage, and part of it was talking to the manager there." He's studying her face warily as he speaks, and finds some actual, honest interest there. This is what makes him confess the rest of it. "Another reason, though, was me being inspired by you."

The curiosity in her face and voices doubles, although there's still a hint of aloofness there. "Me? How so?"

"Back when I was afraid my parents might disown me, you offered to take care of me if they did."

"I did?"

"Yes, you told me you'd start paying me for the work I do for you, so I could provide for myself."

"Ah." A guilty expression twists her face somewhat, as she meets his adoring, respectful eyes. In the past, she's threatened him with making him pay for the privilege of driving her around, instead of getting to do so free of charge. Now, she somehow finds she's no longer able to be quite as callous. "I'm not sure if…if offering to finally pay somebody for the work they've been doing for free for years…well, it _might_ not be the height of generosity," she says weakly.

"Oh. Well…I suppose I might've also assumed that you'd have probably let me live on the premises as well. In a guest room. Or in the pool house."

"Oh! Yes. Of course," Bianca rushes to agree, pretending this was what she intended all along. Attempting to pave over the bumpy road of her selfishness. Although, come to think of it, they do have several servants living on the premises, so maybe it _was_ what she meant. Even though she hadn't specifically stated it.

Yes. There. That feels better.

"Either way, I just thought…it was so sweet of you to offer. You didn't have to. So it moved me."

Bianca's stomach twists. He actually looks up to her. That's the thing. He doesn't just love her, he admires her. And sure, she _is_ beautiful, rich, athletic, clever and talented, but…is she really somebody to look up to when it comes to things like charity? Compassion?

"I wouldn't have made you live in the pool house, if it ever came to it," she hears herself saying, then. "I would've given you a guest room. The big one," she adds, feeling delirious for a second. Wondering where all this sudden and almost nauseating generosity is coming from. "One of the ones with its own bathroom. The really good bathroom."

He blinks. "You mean…the one next to yours?"

This gives her pause. "Uh…well, I just thought…you're a _Brentwood_. You should be able to keep up a lifestyle that somewhat resembles the one to which you were accustomed. Besides," she hurries to continue, "if you _did_ get disowned, then I guess it would…_technically_ be my fault, wouldn't it? So…I suppose it'd be the least I could do."

He seems genuinely puzzled at that. "Oh. I hadn't looked at it like that."

"How?"

"I don't know. That you would owe me anything? I'm so used to me doing things for _you,_ and _me _always being the one at fault. It's so weird to think that _you_ might do something for _me_. Especially because you'd admitted to doing something wrong. I mean…_I'm_ usually the one's who's…wrong."

Bianca draws a quick, shallow breath. Wilshire being Wrong and her being Right is hardly a new arrangement. The way he's describing it now, though, almost matter-of-fact in his downtrodden attitude, makes her gut twist. These days, their usual dynamic seems to bother her about as much as it comforts her.

They keep dancing, and almost a full minute goes by before he realizes how quiet she's being. When he looks up, she's sort of just…staring blankly into space. Worried, he stops dancing to look at her. Almost immediately, however, she releases his hand and takes a step back.

"…Bianca?"

Blinking up at him, she feels oddly detached. "Wilshire," she asks in an airy tone, "could you go get me some punch?"

"Oh! O-of course, Bianca, I didn't realize you were thirsty—"

Her voice takes on a frosty edge. "Well, I _am_. There are some chairs over there. I'll be right there waiting. Oh, and…Wilshire?"

"Yes, Bianca?"

"_Do_ try not to trip and fall on your way back here, will you? This dress was made from the finest Japanese silk, and these days I just can't seem to find a decent dry cleaner in this town."

Wilshire's face feels abruptly hot. Bianca still assumes he'll mess up. And considering his track record, he can't exactly blame her. He just wishes she wouldn't put it quite so coldly.

He bows his head to hide his red cheeks. "I'll…make sure you get your punch, Bianca," he says as he excuses himself. He doesn't look back as he starts making his way through the crowd.

When he reaches the refreshment tables, he's relieved that she can no longer see him.

She's changed. She has. She isn't always dismissive of him. She seems to actually be contemplating him and taking him into account. She's even managed to give him a few kind gestures here and there. It's obvious, though, that she's having trouble.

He doesn't know what it was this time. It could be anything. Maybe she feels she went too far in dancing with him, or putting her head on his shoulder, or even in inviting him here in the first place. Or maybe it was something she said, or he said. Whatever it is, she regrets something.

She's conflicted. She's running hot and cold. Whatever she's feeling, she's struggling with it. There are things there that she doesn't want to communicate to him. She's still resorting to coldness, to lashing out. She's still Bianca Dupree.

Maybe other, more confident and cleverer young men would know what to do, what to say to her.

He still doesn't, despite having practically been her human shadow for years. He supposes this makes him even slower on the uptake than he thought he was.

Then again, he knows he's not the only one who has trouble understanding Bianca. The others probably spend more time than they would like, either thinking about, talking about or trying to deal with Bianca. She might not be popular, but she's anything but insignificant. In many ways, she's the dynamo that so many events at the Teen Club revolve around. She's the one they'll be talking about for years to come; probably even more than they'll be talking about Larke Tanner or Troy Jeffries. Bianca Dupree will definitely have left an impression.

Even though Larke Tanner may seem naïve or too kind, sometimes Wilshire thinks that she might be the only one who's managed to figure it out. How to handle Bianca Dupree. Most of the time, she just takes whatever Bianca says and does in stride, and waits for her to sabotage herself. Of course, sometimes it's too much even for Larke Tanner.

And right now, it's too much even for Wilshire Brentwood.

He doesn't know what she wants. He also knows that asking her won't do any good, and that she's not going to tell him on her own, either.

He's stuck.

Troy Jeffries is out of the picture, yet he's still stuck.

Wilshire draws a breath.

Never mind, though, right? It's not like he didn't know it still wasn't going to be easy.

His hand is shaking as he ladles punch into a cup for Bianca. Some of the cherry red liquid splashes his dress pants, soaking clean through them at the right knee. Replacing the ladle and cup, he mutters some rather tame curse words as he wipes at his pants with a napkin. Luckily, the pants are black, and the lights in the room are dim, so it's not very noticeable.

If he were to do a repeat performance on Bianca's light pink dress, however…

He doesn't even want to _think_ about what might happen then— although, certain unpleasant images from _Carrie_ come inevitably to mind. He _still _regrets letting his cousin talk him into seeing that movie a few years back.

Finding a waiter in the crowd, he taps the man on his shoulder. "Excuse me, could you please take a cup of punch to Miss Bianca Dupree for me?" he asks, before adding, "The girl with the long raven hair and the long, pink silk dress?"

It seems he needn't have given the description, however; the waiter is already nodding. "Miss Dupree, yes. I'll see to it, Mr. Brentwood."

Of course. He should've known. Bianca's infamous, especially among the Teen Club wait staff. And by extension, it appears that so is he.

"Thanks," he says, nodding gratefully before escaping out on the terrace to take a short breather.

* * *

When it's fifteen minutes to twelve, he approaches her again. Clearing his throat and keeping a respectful distance.

"Bianca? It's, uh…it's almost midnight."

"I know," she says, not even turning around to look at him, "there's a giant clock on the wall. Just in case you haven't noticed."

He flushes. "Uh, no, I just…I just thought maybe…"

Finally, she turns, and those ice green eyes pierce him, turning his stomach into a clenching, anxious thing. "You changed your mind and thought you'd pester me about kissing you after all, hmm?"

His gaze drops. "No, I just…thought maybe you'd like to watch the fireworks together."

"You mean to imply I wouldn't have done so without you? You mean to imply I'm waiting for _you_, Wilshire? And what do you mean, _together_? What, with you and about three hundred other people?"

Now she's being unfair, even for her, and it pushes him to react. He swallows. Sets his jaw. Meets her eyes. Frowns slightly at her. "You know what I mean, Bianca," he says, as calmly as he can manage.

A hint of wounded pride flashes in her eyes. "Do I? Then what was the meaning of disappearing on me like that?"

Now her acidity makes a little more sense. "I'm sorry, I just…I needed some air."

Bianca hesitates. She's not used to him taking any time off for himself. He usually only takes breaks when she's busy with something, or when his family sends him on some trip or the other.

"I was only gone for ten minutes," Wilshire goes on, his eyes pleading.

She tilts her chin up. "Very well. Get my wrap, will you? I'm sure it's freezing out there."

She can tell he barely dares to smile; it zips across his face and vanishes in a second. "Of course, Bianca."

* * *

As they're walking out on to the terrace, he decides to ask her something else. He must be crazy. Things are going so well, she's said yes to watching the fireworks with him and everything— he shouldn't push his luck. On the other hand, she might say yes again. Right?

"Bianca?"

"What?"

He grits his teeth for a second; her tone doesn't sound promising. "Um...next week, there's a New Year's charity event for the Beverly Hills teen homeless shelter…"

"So?"

"So I was wondering if…maybe you'd like to join me?"

"What for? I suppose you need some more money to throw away?"

"Oh, no, I get my allowance on the first every month, so I'll have plenty of money by tomorrow."

Her sidelong glance is suspicious. "Then what do you expect me to do?"

"I don't know, I suppose I just thought…maybe you'd like to volunteer?" he suggests, his voice suddenly sounding much higher and less confident than he wanted.

Tossing her hair, she does an elegant little half-turn towards him, coming to a halt out on the terrace. Pinning him with a laser beam of a look. "And here I thought you always agreed that Bianca Dupree doesn't work?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't let you do any of the _hard_ work! I'd do all that _for_ you!" he explains urgently, before calming down a little. "I just…I guess I've been reevaluating my life a little this week…and I can't help but want you to be part of that. And, I mean…you're a capable woman, Bianca. Maybe it's wrong to keep yourself from showing people all the things you can do. Maybe you shouldn't be afraid of a little work."

She narrows her eyes further, determined not to be swayed by his compliments. Coming from anyone else, it would sound like a blatant attempt at manipulation through shallow flattery, but Wilshire's not capable of that. Probably. "What _kind_ of work?"

"I hear they could use some new clothes. And the common room needs redecorating. I just thought…what with your refined taste…."

There's a pause, during which she purses her lips at him. He sounds nothing but earnest, and she knows he really does think that way about her. However, even if the compliments are true, it can still be a form of manipulation. But she supposes it's more like bargaining or pleading than trickery.

Then she nods curtly. "Fine. I'll think about it."

He shoots her a relieved little smile; at least she didn't outright reject the idea. "Thank you _so_ much."

Bianca doesn't know how to respond to this gratitude; can't even seem to make her lips echo his smile. Fortunately, she doesn't have to say anything.

"TEN! NINE!"

The countdown to the fireworks has begun. Everyone around them has started whispering and talking in excitement and anticipation.

"Bianca? Can I hold your hand?"

"EIGHT!"

"What?"

"I said, can I—?"

"SEVEN! SIX!"

"What?"

He should have asked her before the countdown started. Groaning in frustration at his own stupidity, Wilshire shakes his head and shrugs. Silently telling her it was nothing.

"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!"

A deafening cheer rises from the crowd as the fireworks go off, illuminating the night sky in intense bursts of color.

Bianca glances over at the other teens surrounding them. Now, there are plenty of others kissing each other with great enthusiasm. Even Gig and Jett seem not to follow their usual "no work romances" rule. It seems that New Year's Eve is the exception.

Even Switchboard's standing with her back to them, busy filming the fireworks. How will anybody even _notice_ it if she does kiss Wilshire, in this large crowd of people?

A flash of long, naturally blonde hair catches her eyes, then. As she stares at Larke and Troy kissing under the flashing lights, her throat and chest tighten with some strange sense of performance pressure. It's similar to the pressure she always feels when pitted against her rival, except more intense. More important. It's not just about Larke, or even about Bianca's ego.

Bianca turns to Wilshire, and for a second, she almost considers asking him to dip her. Knowing him, though, he'll only trip over his own feet, and the marble terrace floor wouldn't be a comfy cushion to break their fall.

Then she considers grabbing his jacket and crushing her lips to his. Which might end in accidental head butting, or even a cracked tooth or two.

He's looking at her, and she can tell he's trying not to look too expectant. He's not succeeding.

All thoughts of dramatic kisses fly out of her mind as she studies his expression. His failed attempts at hiding the hope he can never quite kill. The ever present tension; the fear of being reprimanded or punished.

No, she'll keep her word. She insisted she wasn't going to kiss him at midnight. But again, she has to do _something_, even if she can't do much. Not just for him, but for herself.

She leans into his side and reaches out blindly for his hand. When her fingers find his sleeve, fumbling downwards, she can feel him trembling. Her name escapes him, in what can almost be described as a whimper.

If he tries to make a big, sappy (and very public) deal out of this, she swears she'll plant her sharp nails right into his arm. She decides not to; can already imagine his shrill yelp echoing across the terrace.

When it comes to him, why are almost all her first impulses at least hard and unyielding, if not directly mean?

To her amazement, though, she doesn't have to do anything. He's already reaching out, meeting her halfway to take her hand in his. His cheeks glowing, he gently threads their fingers together.

Wilshire's mind is buzzing as she actually smiles at him, slowly and shyly. He can't believe he took that step, that he managed to realize what she was going to do and rushed in to do it first. That he dared to take any kind of real initiative with her. Wilshire Brentwood very rarely feels proud of himself, but now is one of those rare occasions.

The urge to declare his undying love to her, right then and there, is abrupt and overpowering. But there are limits, he feels, even to _his_ masochistic tendencies.

Closing her eyes, Bianca allows herself to take a moment. Allows herself to grasp his arm with her free hand, resting her palm on the crook of his elbow, and her head on his shoulder.

"Happy New Year, Wilshire," she says, right by his ear.

All he can manage is a strangled "yes", nodding dumbly. It takes a while for him to pull himself together.

"Happy New Year, Bianca."

It's not a New Year's Eve kiss, he thinks, but it's not nothing. It's really something.

When the last Teen Club fireworks are fading away, Bianca lets go of his hand. Puts a step of distance between them.

The moment is over. Still…the simple fact that there even _was_ a moment at all, saddles him with more of that pesky, pesky hope.


End file.
